Lily’s pot on the second floor,
wide window heavy yellow smoke curtains.
Years of weedy trips turned the place
into operatic phantom’s Parisian sewer,
all liquid images.

Lily never been to Paris,
liliums and lilies never travel the world
in cars and planes
but in weed spirit, thick boiling drops
in broken veins.

Lily was old, too young for the world
too aged for her life.
She was long left waterless
in a lagoon of weed,
poor substitute to her usual drops and love.

Lily, in bulb she born in bulb she went,
just like all the liliums of this world,
insignificantly lovelessly alone,
staring their torturous past
from a pot on the second floor.