you would dissolve yourselves—
your upward standard petals
collapsing and congealing,
dripping violet ooze onto the bureau top.
Such dramatic gore,
unlike other flowers’ demure
their slow fade until one day
I realize what I have displayed
in a tall glass vase now
is death, is yesterday, is
atop woody spindle stems.
But not you,
to a resentful purple glop,
perhaps seeking my apologies for
clipping your succulent high stems
when your falls were at their zenith,
were spread to spring’s spare sun,
beckoning bees to
your bearded, veined convolutions.
You will not go gently.