Untitled

All they want to hear about
Is flowers and starshine and dreams.
But flowers wither from being mishandled--
The heat of a hand, a lack of water;
And stars fizzle out before their light
Can reach our hearts, leaving smoke and debris;
And dreams fade from memory
As soon as the poet
Picks up his pen . . .
He only remembers a faintness, an outline,
A shimmering surface,
A featureless face.
What good are flowers
Or stars
Or dreams?
Forget them. I'll rhapsodize
That infinite era,
The miserly minutes
I spent with you.