Redolent.
Even with flowers on flowers shipped from Bogota savanna,
helping me talk as one of a people with occasions to mark.
Viscously rolling about each other.
Having forgotten the mannered European flower code.
The ground floor of my position holds no dictionary or science
that can really name the flowers.
I'm not pointing,
Because they're so obviously opening.
And still trying to stop being one of these people.
I'm not alone saying back something like dark of flowers,
or stones to swallow.
We're not inside the words.
No interviews.