"Bring me the sunflower crazed with light."
Montale
Weaving out under a sky of prickly stars,
he digs for his keys ‹ clutches the metal
roots tangled in his pocket. Overhead
the buzzing BUD sign flinches. Talking
in its sleep, he thinks. Bet it's saying,
"Let me bloom." But all around him
drunken shadows hiss, "Night¹s already
a kind of blossom." He pauses ‹ sways,
staring and listening . . . wondering
where he should turn. Something even
a god-damned sunflower knows by heart.
