Wallpaper

a line runs down the side of the face
arcing just inside the cheekbone
down to the lever of the jaw
a fine point line traced by the most delicate
of stilettos, set in the faintest relief by pebbled light

fires are lit & graves are filled by
the kaleidoscopic moods of old white men
staring into mirrors

*

he’s never paid attention to flower arrangements
before; there are, perhaps,
books written

that open up a world of flower arrangement
a semiotic of rose and baby’s breath
a window

into this thing he didn’t reckon
this thing, this world
is there a world

beyond this face, beyond this mirror
in abstract, what even is a world
what even is this question

and how can that thing be called into question
by the language of flowers
the voice of lilac

the world on a tree lined street
buttercups, cabbage, and hollyhock
elms oaks and maples, a boulevard

*
and what is this thing language that
the eskimos have 42 words for snow
and snow isn’t one of them

and snow is still only snow
and war is always war
blood rivulets sprayed like

rose petals sprinkled
in inexplicable patterns
falling across polished pergo floors

so many gerrymandered allegiances
wildflowers flowing in comically illogical
washes