The Flower by Robert Creeley

Fools rush in, says Sinatra in a song, and here I am, more than glad to be unhappy, he sings. Look at yourself, he croons, do you still believe the rumor that romance is simply grand?

Here, a poem for our wounds:

The Flower
Robert Creeley

I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.

Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.

Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.

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