High on destitution—
Soft, grant me nothing.
Only the forth-coming
seas of silver-topped flowers
give fear in this veneration.
The ground is rich tonight
and sinks in finger-pressed
rosy garlands.
Knuckle-pressed violets—
palm-pressed tulips—
crushing, filling sugar
and dusk's bloom
in the darkness—
Often off-beat,
one after the other.
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