-
Iris
- University of Iowa Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
50 Iris Dead, though I pick them anyway, because they are mine. Because their time is over I let nothing grow, listen to the ghosts of them, each with her message from Lethe. Each limp stem in a bed of broken necks a fallen bird. We’ve all mistaken windowed sky for heaven;—it is always spring. Stem. Leaf. Blossom. All of it sponged from the air. ...