concentric ripples supernova. bring
false words of comfort to the flower king.
his lover's toothbrush, naked, limp, and damp;
her apothecary scent beside the lamp.
the clocks with silver rounding hands will move,
a fragile ballerina. whispers prove
themselves like film on sunlit days. they met
outside this window, smiles deftly set.
the flower king stares at his hands. despite
the tower, what he seeks is not insight,
not murmured sonnets, not rough hands to till
the fields, not women's water jars to fill.
she floated there; a colored mist to take;
a wraithlike bird-of-paradise to make.
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