The stamens of the lily stiffen into claws.
Gentle lily!
The lily begins to eat us all.
When two angels met in a closed room
was there not a lily on the table between them
and did not the lily on the table between them
have a hunger sent from God?
Don’t ask me that. I no longer have a heart
that can describe the world.
Don’t ask me that, or I shall needlepoint
my own head.
We who are about to die cannot know such things.
This is not where we know such things.
We lean against the sky,
and beyond that—
the dark origin of all this nonsense
where words stray and are not recovered.
Even if you push embers into their apertures.
Don’t ask me that. Even if the changeling
tries to consume me, and spits me out
in a sparked shower.