Jessica Harman is a human being: nothing more, nothing less. This
should not necessarily bother you more than the laws which govern
pretty much most of our galaxy.
Truth is most precious, now,
As the sunflowers close
At the end of the day in florist’s shops, as you close,
Under the clover, under the thistle, the clouds,
Between the thoughts of wild onion blue flowers.
As your death makes the bookends
Of eras—bookends made of geodes
That haunt Natural History Museum gift shops.
And I finished a book,
And sent it off, on this day when you died, today,
And so the wings of the bird,
And so the peel of apple,
And so the city I loved
And so the golden sunflowers in Coolidge Corner’s
Looking like pulverized
Orchids, looking like the moon on fire. And the way we pray,
The way we pray as we stand around
Waiting for Salvation, or something better
Like a TV Show we could get into
In this fallen world, we get so into it we forgot about ourselves,
And this zone is where I loved you,
Where we discussed God and ate Doritos,
Where there was rain, rain, rain, the color of your eyes.