She used to pick wild

wild flowers and take them
on a walk with her in the

morning. Once she dropped
one off an over pass and once
she stained her finger with a dandelion.

Those wild ghost flowers
petals peeling somewhere
else as the stems struggle
to remain in one piece

the wilderness of what
was once a cigarette
between her bruising
fingers makes us wonder
what a memory is made of
if not the ghosts of wild
flowers picked up and redistrib
uted off a side street on the
way to work, yes, you know that
their remainder rots somewhere still:
You know that now their guts are something else.