“You know you do.
                We all have a PoMo crush”

                            – Unnamed PoMo Friend

Planted in beds and soils
my roots will never taste,

even so, you are the flowers
melting at fingers’ touch–

pouring color from palette skies
across my June-ish mind

like viscous drops, ever falling:
I’m an Afremov painting

under layer after layering–
distant knife, always reminding

petrichor doesn’t have to be
smelled to be fragrant;

affection doesn’t have to be
owned to be beautiful.