Hey flowerettes, flung down
on hallowed concrete,
do you scream to the belly of my only womb,
do you desecrate, do you break,
is there a speaking in you that decorates
the wet lakeside rocks,
does the park infiltrate
its own service with lapped-up drones,
is we cloaked in a great conspiracy,
pounded and spread
beyond the nature of moss and fog
with a beaming greased nose
reflecting time's hate, time's
moods and time's tug of wounds
convinced by fullness thereof ?