Inside our dank little turntables
we praise circles that rotate
imprecisely, and play exactly
how we believe they will.
The desiccated flowers laugh up
at us dryly, the downtrodden
and sour-lipped, sucking the teat
of another good life, smothered
in Aspen glow.
Mocking us dourly, knowing
soon they’ll commune with loam
but at least they’ve bloomed within
their own constitution, for
their own amusement.
Expecting nothing, but