I had packed the break and apples and a knife
The paths were dry underfoot
But once there, the dahlia seemed the only thing on fire
It's petals floated like flames
from the attic of a burning house
And though he moved in closer to me,
like a wall of air from the sea,
when I looked into his face
it was still and blank at first ---
not without despair ---
but it was with the force of
glaciers carving ground
(c)1999 Chicago Review
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