THE HUNTERIAN POEMS
Picked flowers on a rug are dangerous
beyond reason. Their mouths hang
empty of pollen or scent. Such a clamour
of petals, each cut throat challenges
the room, renders it uninhabitable.
A shout, a condemnation, a curse, a denial.
What use is Spring to us now? What purpose
a room changed with such desperate light?
Even as we abandon it, their small voices
will follow us, their bitter faces gape.