Something Like the Nasal Music of Kazoos

Sometimes I feel like isolated species of a bunch of leafy
plants which, though they’ve heard about such things as
flowers, can’t remember having met one. So in investigative

convocations they construe what they imagine constitute
the traits and powers of the odd provocative phenomenon:
explore hypotheses of likely shapes and permutations

and contort themselves into symmetrical geometries of line
and volume that they hope might ape some notion of a bloom –
and rather entertain themselves thereby: a kind of carnival

of vegetable vein and frilly edge ensues, with little vine-lets
fleeting up and out, adding to the complex involuting grand
proceedings something like the nasal music of kazoos.

An okay time is had by all until some strange vicissitude
of cool dissociation starts to spread, disseminate a pall:
the optimistic atmosphere grows dim and vaguely vexed,

and duller. You can’t have flowers without color. Which
no one told them is the reason they feel flat. When you
are not around, I feel a thing not terribly dissimilar to that.

.