I would if I could choose Age and die outwards as a tulip does; Not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling Its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing Itself a bud again - though all achieved is No more than a clenched sadness, The tears of gum not flowing. I would choose the tulip’s reckless way of going; Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions From closed to wide, from one through many perfections, Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall, Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.
※本文作者:佚名※
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