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
That Sinking Feeling 