"Purple thistle."
"At a farm or a temple or stadium or an auditorium,
apparently, I am made to speak.
My fellow mosquitoes and bees suddenly
quicken their applause.
My funeral concludes briskly.
I appreciate that something or someone stopped me going
on too long repeating scandals.
Why waste myself on them having had the better of me forever?
No, the truth is in the body language.
But the poor meat shriveled when cooked.
What is amazing is that near the ashes I've become,
two lovers ply a fire higher and higher like a good metaphor
for the changeling come to life under a heap
of last twigs, rattlesnake skin, and cactus ribs.
Bright as bliss if it would please."