FLOWERS FOR A DANDELION

Your simplicity shames me. You house
yourself in the fingers of small cracks,
in fistfuls of soil, in yards left to the tumbling
dominion of weeds. Your deep tongue
roots feet down, brings hot yellow from the earth’s
core and shoots out in round, feathered arms.
You are a tide, a wash of yellow, a gathering
concert of bright moon heads. You are most
unbeautiful and I love to savage you, hold
your body in my fist, your limp dangle
like a sleep drunk child in my arms.

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