Sometimes I arrive with my buds closed,
and I am mistaken for scallions,
but if you cut a half inch from my stems
and put me in water, I open up and release
yellow dust from my petal cups,
like talcum sprinkled on her shoulders
after she bathes and swallows her
third tranquillizer to erase herself,
the sedative piercing right through her
like a small bunch of flowers grasped
by a hand that connects the melancholy
to something in nature urging Trust me,
as the blackbirds at dawn trust
the aurora that conquers night.
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