What little secrets become apparent

from the spiraling centerfolds of

large golden sunflowers perfectly

shoved behind your left, lazy eye?

Is the answer in the memories

that leave us like flower petals

seated on a pinwheel

bound with heart and wire

to the wind?

Is it set, clamped and freshly

fixated into the torn right palm

of a holy man?

A man, whole in virtue,

and unmoved by the scent

of clean blood and sordid,

fleshy carpet stains,

or others’ remnants, much better

deemed stockpile?

A man, much more

concerned with pollen

and fragranced flowers

than with the severed limbs

nestled between his right

leg and his left?

Is the solution contained

in the pre-birth conception

of beauty and ignorance?

Is the correct response

caught on the left wing

of the battered bee, breeding

conceptually beauteous, white

chrysanthemums in the dry,

reluctant soil, penetrated by

a gnarled picket fence.