Communing with Poppies My poor darling, where does it hurt? You slump amid slim red bodies in buttery bloom. Presumably abandoned on the wait listñ though not through any malice. Yet, still another unmarked dagger stains your silk gown. A persistent weed in a communal feeding of pink porcelain-topped ire. The malignancy grapples behind sewn lips. Dwell in the glass doorway, consider the rosy clover that fills your shoes. It will soften. Your strength will cocoon with me in the evening garden, and rage a quiet death.