Stems

I tried to write of flowers
 
As if her fresh bulbs
   of recognition might  
disinter — exhume — what 
   had left me long 
before; when?

I still catch sunlight
   flashing through limbs, tinted
glass; facial muscles
   tightened on their own
accord; a flapping movie
   reel.

As audience
   members sift out
double doors
   onto a beach, where

no flowers grow, the sun
   bakes, people bloom and oils
pool,
   drip,

ripple the reflection