A third eye, an open ended
topsy-turvy petal blowing gap,
a vaginal bore, is what I’ve become.
The bloom's long gone. The petals sucked
dry with nectar long ago lipped.
Every orifice repeats its plea
for knowing I, centered as the core of id.
I am the warmth burnt from fields of Iris’
and bays of daylilies, I have
flowered, soon to die.
A third...
Continue reading...