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George Szirtes-III

A Flowering



The hotel opens

like a flower. No, it bursts

into the air, wild


as the notional

wind driving it into life,

al fresco, fountain


of column and pier

in an architectural

garden of graces.


It craves the sky, holds

itself in check, as by root

and stem, then explodes


as anything might

when moving between two forms,

that which is defined


and that which begins

without a definition

but seeks firm essence.


Here is the windflower

that discovers itself in

its own flowering.


It’s falling apart.

It’s just holding together.

It is barely there.


When we wake the light

will look straight through us. Our eyes

will note the strangeness


of the naked light,

our pleasure in the burst flower

as it blows open.