You don’t put flowers in poems
         for decoration, or to fill in
         empty spaces, but because
         they punctuated your days
         at a certain juncture—
         like the milkweed blooming
         by the road when I went running
         (sweating and thinking about sex)
         that first summer we were apart,
         the first year we were together.
         I pressed one sweet pink globe
         between the pages of my Rimbaud
         and enclosed it with a letter.
         Thirty-two years later,
         its stain still marks the poems.

Jeffrey Harrison
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