Yellow Weed

The dandelions, they make silent music,

doloroso and building; should they not all be gone now? Moved on into
whatever heaven exists for such as a dandelion.

I’ve heard all the emulsions, the life bloods suspending one another,
piling up like colors, small pools rolling inside each other, each belly
aloft upon another,
tiny worlds in wombs.

Couldn’t we all sit inside one another, run kindly hands over any other’s
internal clockwork, horologists all,

witnessing each mechanism of
bio wonderment, turning round in love/anger/confusion/love.

They call it Curtains; downfalls that are not downfalls but rather endings.
We act as if we were designed to last forever, that No Mores
are accidents, mere results of poor plans.

So I am the most eminent of failures, having refused
to bow out, the crowd leaving, the stage lights shutting into dark.

The dandelions never fail.
They die. It is not sad.

Resurrect each season, sometimes whole fields ignoring the cycles,
rolling the yellow rug out for me, my crying hands reaching for the bed
of weeds that some think of as flowers,
but they themselves,

they know just what they are.

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