In The Least

Written in the Outdoor Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Modern Art, NYC

Foliage voluptuously
photosynthesizing –
flat white

flowers howl
on top without
a sound – as open

to the light
as any quaking
baby’s mouth

could be for milk:
arraigned in rows
like silk adornments

through a garden –
seeking pardon
for their brute

existence: pious
bleached novitiates –
beds of would-be nuns

too hungry for
the sunlight
to feel rue.

They don’t
remind me
in the least of you.

.