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Click hereShe fried her heart in the fireplace,
stirred the ashes with a stick,
wrote out her love for me with blackened tip:
A flower wilts above ground, so entomb me
with your seed in six feet of loam. I am a bulb
and will sprout next Spring,
then die again, of course. She lit another cigarette
and primped her dyed and perfect hair.
I didn't want her mouth,
only the pure burial
of my atheistic self
in unsanctified, wet earth.
I always look forward to your poetic appearances and you don't disappoint this time.
Tess
is already included in the concept of the bulb and plant regeneration. Good poem regardless.