Night drives to the lakefront, just Tommy and me. Parked before the breaker stones we’d spark a bowl of dope and find a limestone
Hellflowers. Hellflowers, shatter me. One-eyed like God, the great Cyclops, and that yellow glaring, glaring. Every jagged edge of it spearing. Who asked if
A flower’s script, its voice once needing a god called water, imprints itself excruciatingly slowly into stone. And forty-five million years later two strangers