One isn’t one only.
That much is sure—
beneath the lance-leaves
and the scum,
the wiring tangles into one engine,
same humming ages back,
fat with the flower to come,
fat with the flowers before,
so petals split,
redden at the clench.
Red that says Here, and Be.
That says Come.
This too danders,
spills dust, films over.
The fish know. The eggs
of flies. In widening,
a lily mouths its dirge
in praise of now.