by Karen VolkmanI asked every flower I met had they seen my palest friend. The chant of the roots will beget petals that blazon and bend and erasable eyes to forget the sun and the storm and the wind, the sky which wheels in its net, the black of the blurrest portend. "We see in the sheerest clair the nothing that vitals and vides. No friend of your night and your debt will blight our murmur with seeds of the mortal flower, regret, which roots in the arc of the air."
