Orange is the single-hearted color. I remember How I found them in a vein¹ beside the railroad，A bumble-bee fumbling² for a foothold While the poppies' petals³ flagged beneath his boot.

    I brought three poppies home and two buds still sheathed⁴.

    I amputated them above the root. They lived on artlessly Beside the window for a while， blazing orange， bearing me No malice⁵. Each four-fanned surface opened To the light. They were bright as any orange grove⁶.

    I watched them day and night stretch open and tuck shut With no roots to grip， like laboratory frogs' legs twitching⁷ Or like red beheaded hens still hopping⁸ on sheer nerves.

    On the third afternoon one bud tore off its green glove And burst out brazen⁹ as Baby New Year.

    Two other poppies dropped their petals， leaving four Scribbly¹⁰ yellow streamers on a purple-brimmed and green

    Conical cadaver¹¹ like a New Year's hat.

    I'd meant to celebrate with them， but they seemed So suddenly tired， these aging ladies in crocheted¹² Shawl leaves. They'd once been golden as the streets Of heaven， now they were as hollow.

    They couldn't pull together for a last good-bye.

    I had outlived them and had only their letters to read，Fallen around the vase， saying they were sorry