I guess I’m here like the tulips are here,
somewhat against their nature, cut from the stem. Fate,
I’ve come more often to appreciate. Her
hard turning of the wheel used to throw kings
aaaaaaaaaaaaaand peasants and bishops in buckets
around the hemispherical heavens,
each taking their turn at the midday top
before falling off just after nine.
The tulips though aren’t waiting for anything,
fate or otherwise, not like I’m waiting,
with only the concept and the feeling of waiting
but not the what for.