The garden must pluck poise
from the nakedness we’ve become,
in the bearings pale-covetous, dressing
black carnations on morning’s palm.
We burned through all the public parks;
I watched as the others expressed
beliefs until the trees caught fire
until after which, there blossomed
carbon flow’rs in the conflagration,
in their state most rudimentary.
There trapped with us, in our juvenile cells,
a corollary consciousness.
— A. P.