Poetry

Loading the twin calyculi 
at the dawn. Cotton grass 
will get an― 
extortionate price. 
 
Silence was dead. 
And as were the protests 
of levitating poppies. 
 
Chasing a colored storm 
becomes a craze, these days. 
Bystanders will witness 
the fall of blue night. 
 
You want to unfollow 
the begonias now, cultivating 
the unkissed music on the 
lips of swaying reeds.