I hate to write of flowers
It’s not very rock and roll.
But those tulips you bought and I planted
couldn’t be more you if they tried.
Their shade would have caught your eye
You’d talk of a boxer’s bruise
a seeping blueberry pie
a garnet from James Brown’s finger
Ava’s nails, a Lansky shirt,
You would photograph them
one knee in the dirt
before squid ink turned to ash.
Colour was your thing
Beauty your passion.