The School of Flowers


(written after a sculpture by Phillippe Metivier in Persac France)



I have been to the school of flowers

where democracy turns on a spindle 

like a daisy.



I have witnessed Pinochet spinning

this way and that 

with all the presidents

of something.



This old rusty saw

used to be my country.

Now I use it to hack through memories

in the tall grass.



None of us could see 

where we were going--




We said yes and yes and yes

to what we thought

was the sun.



Too many of us 

have lost our bright pistils

for talking too loudly.



Still, the flowers are growing

at this extreme height

in the sparse air like a prison cell

on this bloody sacred ground.