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.