The deep wine <br />of it risen tall above <br /> the buried <br /> corm, <br /> its ornamental <br />spathe furrowed thought- <br /> fully, to human <br /> warmth. <br /> O un-branched <br /> inflouresence, amorpho- <br /> phalos, misshapen <br /> swelling, <br /> with its allure <br />of rotting flesh <br /> for the scarabs <br /> to follow, <br /> hollow, to the sun-lit <br />trove, as though all <br /> dark were light <br /> unbidden <br /> by our parsing <br />eye, and love itself <br /> hidden inside <br /> the word. <br /> Call it life <br />enrapt with death's <br /> blight, blooming <br /> briefly. <br /> Emergent morning <br />in the sweet gum triggering <br /> green, green <br /> its wings <br /> fanning translucent <br />below the porch light—angelic, <br /> a palm of light <br /> opening. <br /> Hallowed, hatched <br />each instar inches undercover, <br /> a spent thing <br /> climbing <br /> larval, alluvial, <br />out of every cycle's shelf- <br /> life, its rife <br /> unknowing, <br /> to become this end— <br />brief birth flying, flown, thrown <br /> at midnight into <br /> beginning. <br /> Mouth-less, it appears <br />something bidden out of the dark, <br /> out of the broadleaf, <br /> unmoving, <br /> to say something <br />wordlessly—the word we too <br /> can neither speak <br /> nor sing.<br /><br />Daniel Tobin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/corpse-flower-luna-moth/
