the flowers were out pollinating your name
or it might have been the bees, you may have
been the picking, the string of green stem
licking at my knee.
after my glass has raised itself to the sun
and the rain comes thick and viscous,
a murky sludge of words like white frost
settles over my tongue and is embedded there-
in the rock, by the dates which freeze you in time.
i should say it was rock,
my lord of sad forevers-
shaped it into stone.
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