robert dickerson

I gave my new love flowers-
sleek adolescence
of tulips from California
purple-virginal
cold, too, and dewy
pink and sky green-
hues that will often tint
the lintels of dreams.

I wanted to give a gift-
something that would fire,
flare, swoon with chagrin and fade
slowly, beautiful like our
preposterous love: dry up, their dyes
caked in their veins, intact:
thus-flowers opening their beaks
irresistible to the sun.

Our hourglass then these
tulips in their tall
clear, cylinder of sunshine
confused at the waterline
'Set, go', we cry as one
by one the petals plash
in the warm mahogany sea, their
prows imaged in the polished wood.

When the final petal dropped
and spotted molds in the fell water
gummed the stems, out we flung them
now but fodder for regret.
tenderly, I collected my neckties
from the dear hand, our lips
brushed and we retreated to the corners
of our real-life lives, plaisant, civilized.