“Is the flower beautiful because it is ephemeral or is there beauty in a flower as it is simply beautiful?”

of course, beauty 
is in the eye 
of the beholder. sometimes, 
like a pin. others, like
an apple. i tend to be 
simple in my aesthete’s appetites
for the floral; they appear
pretty to me and so
i leave it that. 

i leave my body,
at that. or,
is that a body of hope, 
to persistently seek 
escape? we spin 
ourselves into sleep.
we salt ourselves to 
salivating. we scrub ourselves 
numb; crimson, glowing. 

what is it to be
Human, other than Fear
and a womb’d wounding?
love is beguiling–is it
ever anything other 
than another lever pull,
in attempt to slake our howling 

ah, muttering mind.
what does any of it
matter. i have 
addicted myself to my 
self, the thoughts
that marble through my 
maze’d brain, 

a flower is a 
teacher; quiet down 
human. brother son 
enemy saint. quiet 
down and do not
figure. grow into 
your beauty, inhabit
softly your blooming

Galileo Chini: “La primavera che perennemente si rinnova”. 1914

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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