The Ostriches

In every rose there is the scent of death

I thought I was one of them

But I’m not and I’ve never been

Who cares about me anymore

No longer will I sit in the sun

When I get a poem I kill it

No instead I’ll just fall in love or just die

I don’t expect you to care about it

You’ve never cared about me at all

When I feel a poem sprouting out

I shut it away

Deep in the folds of time

I’ve never meant anything to anybody

In every flower there is the stench of the infinite

When I’m handed a poem now, I send it back