Pickings
The Queen’s Lace puts a heavy head
up. I put a light.
The Clover’s frock is red tonight
beneath moon’s parasol.
I’m liable to die.
Even the flowers cannot be erased
from the backstop of time.
Even grace
can’t save the lonely daisy
of Human life that has lost its stem.
The wind can be stopped
by a factory at work.
The life
of every worker can be stopped
when the flower’s plucked.
The flower’s been plucked.
