Poppies, Seen in a Field

Blood flows out of these eyes,
blooming with yolk, the irises black.
Why do these hellish mouths open to me?
As if to scream death. Red skirts round
a waist of death. Do not weep your
heroin tears for me. Already I am
sick with the milk-white sap of life. In a
field of chrysanthemums and violets your words
are poison. The cornflower sky breathes in
your fumes. Are you not ashamed?
Close your mouths. Don’t sit there
gaping like fresh wounds.

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