The Flowers of Valentine

Wreathed to cure the plague maybe

In the Christian time

They hung about the nape of the cruel fresh


And might have been dishevelled by accident

When one of my forerunners caught a sepal

Wound in a hairy bounding sort of crown

And cried “But these are almost real”

To the ripping sound


The florist’s writing is less beautiful

Than hers who sent them who cannot see me,

Except by clear morningshine, like before;

But the florist just whacks them out, neatly,

Bluely neatly, some mauve flowers,

In frustratingly edible and swaddled boxes.


And so indeed the date came round and

Didn’t staunch the plague or kill

The victims who had extreme unction;

Didn’t profit by my will.


The debt and dirt in layers and occlusions, let it be sowed,

As the date rolls back, as they draw back, as I go back.


But the gift was sourced and the sauce was cooked

For the voluble gander as white goosey looked,

And the funny side was greased about,

Between the shipments and proctor’s doubt,

A trope delivered is a cliché bare,

Pleasant to study.


And how we could laugh, though they died with all

Else that ever died, and Saint Valentine,

The posthumous plague-saint, the pyrrhic faith healer.

The corse of a saint is inviolate,

But his relics can rot, and these stank, and we laughed.


Two good-byes later, which I just don’t do,

And non-conversations past, which I didn’t,

I’m so grateful. We laughed very hard.