an act

field of violets sweeping in and out of itself 

each flower a sepulchre for the world 

within each flower is the entire world 

every flower is exactly the same 

a field of identical things 

moving in unison and coruscating 

with the light of every mother’s love

I would that each flower be plucked 

that this field be made bare

I would that the plucked flowers, these wretched dahlias

were trampled

and spat on, and set ablaze 

and the ashes spread violently and terribly 

smeared all over  a pretty young girl 

her visage deranged by soot 

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