Issue 77, Winter-Spring 1980
His kindergarten teacher blooms
like a crocus from the linoleum,
and her scent unlocks the labyrinth,
but the children roil up like magma.
He becomes a flower at last,
full of his medical experience.
The thunderous nightmare lights on him
to taste his offering through its legs.
It takes. His everything is drained
into a network of alien need,
and rises by paired baroque organs,
of language, invented for lying.