It All Gets Out Of Control

Let's write a poem right now.
It only has to make sense after someone
Has read it three or four times
And all the words have had time to sink
In like when you go to water a dry flower
Where the pot fills to the brim
And then only slowly begins to go
Down and be swallowed but then of course
It begins to leak out of the holes
At the bottom and makes a mess
And the flower just looks back at you
Ungrateful and dead except that
(Because you consider yourself a poet)
You seem to see its ghost petals
Spreading in the shaft of sunlight
While the carpet and your jeans slowly
Get soaked with dirty water and that
Is alright because you are alive to
Feel it and later when the sun goes
Down you might get into someone else's
Jeans and make friendly gestures
With tentative hands that cause the
Other person's eyes to close and open
Like the petals of a ghost flower
Until finally you are both so anxious
To set the moon on fire and empty
The whole watering can into the hard
Dry packed soil that the terracotta
Breaks in your hands and vines burst
Forth and bind you together for all
The world to see and soon its nothing
But nothing between your bodies and
A soft sucking silence of sated roots
Tangled in the timbers of a happy grave.