Cashew Nuts and Peridot Water

Carnation Sunday Mornings

Too soon for the street vendor,
the delicate carnation, I saw it dive
down and was lying on the cold, wet
pavement.

It was Sunday morning and there were
other flowers fashionably chopped at
the stems and being lifted up from
near death, being sold,
but still.
I didn't notice their smell
and their fiery crimson frailness or
the overwhelming vertigo of those
colorful baskets like freshly laundered
goods for a house full until I
realized, like a pool of melted wax,
their fate was a bath of extinction,
too.
Dancing in my hands then
finally failing to breathe, a fancy
of blithe joy,
no more.