Poem #55

Still-life at the Dentist’s office…

Two tulip blossoms
grown from the same stem:

if the bulbs burgeon red,
then they tell what tantalized
their roots at first light in the soil,
and if the bulbs burgeon yellow
we would see the incisors
of someone happy.

Yet, these tubes are black and white.
We know not from which sediment
nor from which  vase of water
the Viennese wonders sprout,
nor to what giver’s use.

One damned dream: when you’re old,
behind your books.
One question inquisitive of Loneliness:
will you ever sever from silence
to meet any lady or man outside stories told?

Yet, these petals are not about pals.
One with bad teeth beneath a dentist falls.
Yet, we cannot see which blooms into patient nor doctor.
One bends its cup-like-head to its leaves before
one eager to relive whatever pain might forth pour.

 

 

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