Bring me marigold,
the flower a bee won’t visit,
that’s where I will leave my heart.
Bones eaten by teeming termites
crumble to ash that blows over mustard field,
yellow blossoms with pockmarks of grey.
Water fills my lungs
scoops grey phlegm of sadness
that has hardened into a tablet of story;
it floats like wax on the surface of sea.
Tell me, will you dish it out,
have the script rewritten?