Good things should stay on the verge of festering.

Half-naked by the sink, I sweated through the afternoon, pruning the parts we didn’t need to be beautiful.

When I brought them home from the florist’s, they had so many leaves—

green havoc, green lineography on the plastic wrap they’d courted.

It was Sunday, a casual walk after lust, after

all the crumbs had been picked, the way back no longer visible,

and I wanted to see some signifiers of life on display.

from “Bruised Jasmines”