Poetry 2011 / Volume 42

Dutchman’s Pipe — Ann Robinson

What scent, whiff
drove this creature into the wrong hour?

The fly circled the rim
of the piped flower,
wandered into the fluted portals.

This heart-shaped flower
resting on a vine,

small trap
of loveliness.

The fly returned to my petalled civilization,
drunk with pain,
dying on my flagstone.

In my garden,
beauty is dangerous.

Pollen stings, a bee warns,
my wrists have been choked by vines.

My life is small, doubtful with expectations.
See how the hummingbird rides the heart,
calms me when it can.

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