Tulips
       

That
tulip set
by the window

in its vase
of dusk is like
aflame. You

cannot help
but say — no.
Because a

tulip caught in
that glass is
a flame —

and once you
have said it how
to return to

bloomed stem
or soft spike
of anther

where now
is fire? Words
burn — bridge

colours away
from colour — so
while one

tulip flares
we lay waste
to night and

glimpse
our reddened
names — the way

Anne
cannot bear to
end — or as you

take your leave
of Mario that
ah

so missed and
strange. And you
sputter so

fierce with it
that you say it
again —

that this gift of
tulip is un-
like any

other — which
fires my lips
with a glow

already half
subsiding as you
turn to gaze — to

look with a mind
on the very point
of opening.

Copyright © 2010 Mario Petrucci All rights reserved
from i tulips
Enitharmon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission