I give myself permission to lull the savage flower
like a phoneme from the infamous waves.
Today I saw a calyx atop every roof –
pollens, inverted hyacinths,
stunted euphorias at the mini-mart:
fluttering glassy wrappers in the Trade Winds—
like how the old poet crept beneath the myth
in her wrinkled skirt & shrugged
loose from the pavement
a radical new altar of sound.
The chorus ejaculated in antistrophe:
The earth has a taste!
The problem is you’ve been dialing the wrong deity,
cigarettes burning on the table—
& you forgot how to use them.