by Mie Hansson
Fried grass on a coastal plain. Ancient stones,
Barren trees, wild waning weed . . .
Blows a scarlet opium flower, on her own,
Like a soprano on a murky desolate street.
Almost sacred to me—singularity—so i silence my greed.
My hands remain lapped, and still, as i feed her memory.
Within this sickle of indifference and lethargy . . .
I fathom my whole heart in that lone stem of beauty.