Flowers 1

By Kevin Clothier

I am writing from the left
wing of the dream house.

I am writing because I heard your name
whispered among the mice down here.

I am writing under the prodding of the night’s
dirty fingers.

I am writing to you with waning breath, my
tongue hardening to marble.

I am writing to stop your hemorrhage
of memory.

I am writing to prepare you for the coming
of pale horses.

I am writing with the stump of my last nerve.

I am writing to break the embalmer’s code.

I am writing blood rhymes in the
nursery of fools.

I am writing to beckon the insects of fear.

I am writing rather than leaving
a rose on your pillow.

I am writing with a picture
of you here beside me.

I am writing to tell you that
I will be arriving soon

Please- don’t wait up.

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