Of Clowns and Flowers

The blooms along the

pearlescent highway have something to say.

Something hard, heavy, fragile as

a newborn Monday.

Pastel clowns zoom past me in minivans,

with children in the back,

their desperate faces pressed to the glass

like cling wrap.

There was a rehearsal for the

unification of everything,

but I could not find my third

piece among my things,

which found me tangy

and burnt like pie.

Bees drink the oily nectar,

imagine heaven swelling up

from the soil in a

prefabricated hive,

and something sweeter than honey.

The clowns roll past with

children ensconced in their nightmares.

Nothing is unified, but more

and more steel is soldered

together by errant bakers.

The flowers breathe,

begin to speak their piece.

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