AMBERGRIS

And what came of it all is still falling.
No way to suppose how the pieces
of this rose fit or what pattern
the petals will fall in, matter of fact
there's the beauty of it, to revel
in the opportunity to not be the architect.

Once, a city of fingernails grew.
From this embroiled, razorcoiled
hanging garden dropped battalions
of ripened fruit, hunched and ready,
this crop grew to prune itself.

Thus leaving the nails to grow
another race. One after another
dropped into the stew, come
to perfect a manicured face.
This chitinous fortress a tomb.

Once, a pretty breathing firestorm
flew from each other's lips
and scalpelwired eyes, a coalition
of the lit. Relay trance.

Magnification of distant concerns.
Zero avoidance. Hidden yearning.
Perhaps for reassurance where
the park benches are made of claws