Black obsidian in salt

Today the earth is fickle and purposeful
I drive – no, 
I ride with myself. 	Summer drums a skull
to hard rock
I hear it whispering about hostages
and what the subconscious can’t unlock

Two gladiolas cut from the grass 
on a kitchen island 	took root in glass
before they droop 	it’s their last chance
its captivity captivating me
only by the mere shrewdness if not circumstance 
feeling the seasons changing	
me
less at first glance and then more 


                                                        Tonight 
                                                       the breeze hosts an insect dance
                                                   their vital mission

                               while inside my mind love becomes the villain
                             I count the wings from six to six trillion 
			tilt the jilted vision until I can see it different 

          I rub salt on the black obsidian
and see the ending first:

how the seeds came down, tumbling back toward the earth
and how the ground opened its mouth and erased them – 
how down, deep down in that dark ground’s the antidote 
how the gladiolas died holding one another
or maybe reaching for each other’s throats