trades

we ran a plumb line down the chasm
  perhaps thinking to balance bitterness
with renewed courtship:
    flowers    wine
a return to the start. unguarded
    words recall aches and storms of
passion don’t invite the peace of a level line.
  our vows refract broken glass.
can it matter if you lie and i don’t care?
trading on futures with promissory
    for a rare, dear flower—
an ancient tulip trade—
leaves us with the bulb unwanted.
still, we plant and it grows after hard freezes:
    royal promises.
but, unexpected frost gathers on green petals:
    browning leaves wither:
the bulb is starved—
all that’s left: food for squirrels.



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