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No Comely Mourning Flower


Brent Fuller

A flower soul unfolded on a whispering summer morning
In nerves and sinews draped itself
Onto a framely molding
The seed of two had multiplied and
Times ahead would fully,
Discuss its sort
And coo and peek
And decide its category

Thanks to lots of practice
Or whatever quelled Caribdes
The boy at every juncture
Cast many to a sway.
Looking back with a hair out of place
He perceived the lawless shunting
Long intrepid was a mariner’s tale
Not needed at all
Thanked he.

Could it be right
This handsome star
Shined on by odds
And starlight
Would thwart the
Discernment of those elder ones
Steeped in learning and sure
To what might be.

The boy saw other
The pace of those
set for him
Suggestions of a recitation
A race spun on wheels
Not known to him

Sooner than later
Blame found his path
And joined him in high stanzas
Peels of laughter dimmed
And hushed
As he hunkered in his Attica

Deed and done were injury
Misplaced was hope to conjure.
Injury trod deftly where his birthright lay
And anguish
Curled beside them

Trappings of another fellow’s vision
Ensnared our negligible entrant
A smeared preamble
Caused so much lesson
Oil & spice assume now his station

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