Form

Clovers

At the center of the sun a ball of iron spins in one place, unseen;

The black anchor of our heavens living under the firestorm of life.

Millions of miles away, patches of dirt, soaked in morning dew, blossom;

Touched by the light of flares flung in the course of entropic combustion.

Clovers and wild violets amid wild grass; a foreign seed a plant once fashioned;

It has grown into a bitter gourd vine; floating over the city line.