Cream and Crismon

Ecru tears of linen, dipped in water, set on the earth to dry.

Ripped, laid out parallel, they are the white gurneys of my ambition,

Irrepressible, full of joy, sometimes malign, like a child’s first crime.

Could an undyed hope left to wither on a mattress rise and wake?

Ripped, laid out parallel, they are the white gurneys of my ambition,

These fragments of sheet music and one hueless dream still on the pillow.

Could an undyed hope left to wither on a mattress rise and wake?

Or will it, like the broken-hued tulip, fracture in cream and crimson?

These fragments of sheet music and one hueless dream still on the pillow

Litter my bedroom floor. My hopes suture my dream-space.

Will they, like the broken-hued tulip, fracture in cream and crimson?

Or blend into a more pure color? Can I plant a surer root than rude ambition?

Littering my bedroom floor, my hopes suture my dream-space.

But a stitch is not a root, and runs to nowhere.

Can I plant a surer root than rude ambition? Or blend into a more pure color?

I am one broken tulip in a field of other broken tulips. Broke uniquely.