Breadcrumb #365

BRIAN SHEFFIELD

Only the prettiest flower
may cut itself out, let fall
its head, that hydra.

Only the prettiest flower
may let down its hair,
that fireball of petals,

to paint on the earth
a memory of water
or a thought of dark clay.

The children of Jocaste
buried their feet
in the plastic soil of

of a world that was
already too busy
turning dying myths into

the prettiest flowers.

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