Poem With Tulips, Bowl, And Frisbee

This arrangement. Photos
arrive, vanish.

The red tulips. Because you
looked, collapsed.

As if the room collects
every word: a blue bowl.

Must each word embrace the one before
until silence arrives? Its large
velvet hands.

The street. From here.
To the park. The frisbee. The dog. The frisbee

soaring out of its plastic halcyon heyday arriving yellow
as the sun in summer.