the crocus is revered because it looks like sex
but I can only see its frosty carnage
like every morning
is early spring;
so who’s to say
we’re not just masking 
psychosis in turtlenecks
pulled up to the nose, 
like the flower
uses gargoyles for its bookends, 
the gloomy sorts of affiliations 
we love to write about,
the scarred harvest that is want, 
ecstatic and brittle
as the disability I will become 
soon enough.
So what I propose is 
we use each other
as foundations towards concords
while minding the folds,
since dispassionate blunders from the mouth 
are unforgiveable, the tongue 
of a poet is always
the unfolding of a mockery,
like a murky waitresses will linger 
in the background, write my order 
for two when I signal—
then bring a coffee for one.

© Paddy Scott