for A.

What of the pollen?

If I close this mouth,
pinch these nostrils shut,
how will I breathe?

What of our operas,
staged now in the spot lit
corners of empty rooms,

the camera with film
not yet developed?

What of the steel diamonds
sinking in my brain like sugar,

and the magnets
circling my head,
moving closer?

What of you,
essence?

Crystal blue spinning
cherry bomb
who exploded
in my hands.