“A Stop On the Road North” by David Troupes

05 September 2011 on Poetry   Tags:

The single daffodil rested in its little vase
like a dead
and gummy bait eel stewing in the tide. Light

from the window passed through the yellow
meat of the stalk
which slump-stood in water as pale

as evening piss, and as motionless
in the vase
as a universe seen from the outside. The flower,

though dead, was a blooming of the water,
as though that universe had cried out
to be saved and this were its strange fulfillment.

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