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88 dead metaphOr: day lilies The crisp snap of each neck as you collect yesterday’s prizes in two hands—monument of dripping mush. Today’s today, another morning of inventory and praise, frank confession regarding favorites, who’s having banner year, who disappoints. The sexy language lily geeks adore: stigma, style, pollen-heavy anthers. Ritual hook of loss and renewal. Avant Garde’s last day, a single preening bloom. By afternoon, June sun will pale her lemon throat to ivory, then brief and angry storm shred apricot petals. It’s a tough life, ya know, gone in a blink. Impossible to hold perfection, rare a long good-bye. Today’s today: first of Bengaleer, her lanky, lion-gold curves. Labial midribs of Ballerina embarrass you to look, but you do. Call Girl just spreading peach enticements— she doesn’t like to open early. How can you resist the action, aroused caretaker in shorts and slippers? Shades of color—carmine, scarlet, strawberry rose . . .— shades of temperament—tall scape or short, head demure or brash into sky—enliven your private converse. Jutting hello of Lusty Leland, White Tie Event’s exquisite ruffle. Scotsboro’s pink beyond delicacy. When I Dream, my god you’re a fiery wench, but Fair Annette’s back tomorrow, and you know how I feel 89 about her blowsy, butter-cream languor. She’s obvious I know, but I can’t help myself. By now, Little Ginger’s bleeding down your arms and you’ve stained another t-shirt with fistfuls of dead-head goo you’re still squeezing. You spiral the mess over compost, Thursday’s 72 affairs atop the day before’s, forgotten. Friday to follow. ...

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