Eight meters out to heaven,
Two flowers rise from the still
Waters of the sky: one spits seeds
Like a wound spits blood,
The other weeps nectar
Like one weeps tears. The climbing
Leaves around them are glowing in
The light: eight meters out to heaven,
I link pinkies with no one,
Standing shoulders to my chin
Idly,
A being out of place,
Staring at these two flowers;

Bleeding.
Crying.