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

Source: Poetry (June 2025)