Digging in a bed of guilt, I grow marvelous flowers.
The trowel studies hard the language of the flowers.
The man, a teacher, had not been touched for a month.
I finger-fucked his ass while looking at the flowers.
A braided rope and spiky chain and leather whip
don’t hurt—or pleasure—the flesh more than flowers.
It is a luxurious hurt. It is a kind of blackmail.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Here, take these flowers.
This month I labor to transform ghazals to gazelles,
to flaunt this handicap: forty-nine names of flowers.
At four, the window black, I labor to sit still
and listen to the sap rising, and then the flowers.
Look at him, read his blog, or Jee will disappear.
God looked hard and where his looks fell, there were flowers.