This nightflower, the size of a cat's head--
now moist and sentient--
let it hang there in the dark;
bare beauty asking nothing of us,
if we could graft you to us,
so singular and married to instant.
But now rest picked, a trillium
never to repeat yourself. Soon enough
you'll know dead air, brief homage,
a sliver of glass in someone's brain. 
-- from 'A Year's Changes'; Jim Harrison (1968)

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