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| naam: | Lynze | | latijns: | coenagrion puella | | features: | the hyacinth, a woman my age
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a nimbus of light spills
thru hair shorn at the root
and pasted on this petal.
she keeps finding the tap
then letting it go, white cream flow
downstream circling.
in the floor is a whole she wishes
to slip into, dark , shape of a lily pad.
here she knows, the bass angle for brim.
when she's oblique she wants
trim eyebrows and a fat wallet.
when the sun is full on, wilting becomes her halo.
the bridge stands erect. she thinks of men.
if she were suicidal things would be done.
she is scentless. purchases hormones online.
so much to go thru, item by item.
she thinks of honeycombs, commisions the woodworker
he comes to her home. they embrace.
the ideas repeat themselves in tacky hair.
love stories are for frogs and the mudstained
skirts of ophelia. she understands this. she allows
the roses to wilt, and unfolds through them
with a cubist desire to share flat points of view.
the smell she realises that's when
they're rilly gone. the seeds are so tiny.
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