~CHRIS BULLARD~

NARCISSUS

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The familiar paperwhites
moored to gravel
in a ceramic pool
raised scrapes to depart,
a trumpet on each,
pale as a reflected face.

Fixed in handsome bloom,
ready to circumnavigate
their tiny Sargasso,
the fleet hesitated—
then dismasted,
unwilling to weigh anchor.

Treasure ships or slavers,
whatever the manifest
of their dry hulls,
no goods were unloaded,
though I waited
as the sun waited for me.

© by Chris Bullard