Drop

The flowers try to kill the others, like a slow
assassination drowning them in a thick

mulch of petals. The hyacinth spangled
with cherry blossoms, then cloaked, then gone,

and I try to shake them free but hurt more than help
the stems now bruising and browned.

The blossoms are tacky with rain and rot and stick
like a bit of cellotape or like a bit of shining onion skin

when you try to peel then chop then cry
and it clings to your fingers like a dying friend.