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sunflower
solidarities are pleasant enough,

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and they can die on the Hill over there
with the other volumes of
sunflowers,

those
that are puffed up
in their brazen majesty,

that are seeking the envelopment
of warm air,

that are vying for the ****** sun,
as always,

that are holding petals
who creep inside when put upon,

that are sobbing for the other sunflowers
as their radial compatriots,

that are living for all else
that cannot,

that are swaying with intent
that bends them off,

that are dying in beating blades
of grass,

that are toasting to deities
who are concealed in their flames,

that are writing ardently
in their soft refrains,

that are fornicating their pleasures
away from the other
sunflowers,

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that die on the Hill over there
when solidarity is enough for them
to extract pollen by their own strength
and pelt it at the bees
and dissolve on their stems.

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