Another New York, another multitude, another distance
opening up: the petals of the flower won’t touch again
beautiful and lonely and plucked for a child’s game
that no one sees because all the other petals
are left to dry up on the floor
or hopefully the ground.
The petals are lost, not even pressed in a book:
how will this beautiful past be remembered?
The sun will take its light with it someday
as math continues descriptively
shooting up water and tallying the dead:
the zeroes are fading
as the number is stretched further and further:
surely there must be a better way
to retain the dead.
The earth must become full
before research into sustainability becomes profitable/ doable,
so we’re told these answers must wait
because the zeroes are still legible,
only the insignificant petals are dust,
and the British Museum exists.
But flowers won’t exist forever,
so they won’t have to open,
and these games will not be played.
There are too many tears in the world
to be blotted by tissues from emptying boxes:
there are not enough trees in the world
even if we dig up the roots and turn those into tissues.
Nothing grows fast enough: the flowers cannot
bloom on schedule; everyone can’t import the same thing.
The mirrors aren’t mirrors anymore: the person and the state
are not the same. There was a heist: someone replaced the mirror
with an American flag; with tissues it can be removed…
that’s something better to do with your hands
instead of plucking petals, making decisions, blotting tears,
but it’s hard to stop because even that is a constant decision.