The Literary Review, June 22nd, 1998
On the fourth day the nausea can't keep down
a drop of water, the dry heaves have intimately
acquainted me with my plumbing, but mind
is forcing gut to just barely not flinch; on the couch,
staring at a juice glass full of marigolds a friend has left
on the coffee table, everything else removed--this
mantra of flowers gauche as plastic flamingos ... but I
like their yellow, orange, mahogany scent, not sickeningly
florid, but astringent enough to repel nematodes--
they're helping me focus (I stare hard)--if only
Kierkegaard had realized the Garden is only the shade
of these marigol...
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