The other marigolds and the cloths

Are crimes invented for history.

What can we achieve, aspiring?

And what, aspiring, can we achieve?

What can the rain that fell

All day on the grounds

And on the bingo tables?

Even though it is clearing,

The statue turned to a sweeter light,

The nearest patrons are black.

Then there is a storm of receipts: night,

Sand the bowl did not let fall.

The other marigolds are scattered like dust.

Sweet peas in dark gardens

Squirt false melancholy over history.

If a bug fell from so high, would it land?