In the environs of the funeral home 
The smell of death was absent. All I knew 
Were flowers rioting and odors blown 
Tangible as a blossom into the face, 
To be inhaled and hushed—and where they grew 
Smothered the nostrils in the pungent grass.

Hyacinths of innocence and yellow-hammers 
That beat the air at dawn, at dusk, to metal 
Immortality, that flush where a bee clamors 
For wine, are blooms of another color. See 
How the flush fades as it descends the petal,
How deep the insect drinks, how quietly.