i would if i could choose
age and die outwards as a tulip does;
not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling
its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing
itself a bud again - though all achieved is
no more than a clenched sadness,
the tears of gum not flowing.
i would choose the tulip's reckless way of going;
whose petals answer light, altering by fractions
from closed to wide, from one through many perfections,
till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall,
like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.