The flower is red, is perched

Where roots split, in the gnarl

Of a tower, sucking in its meager fast,

And retracting the spell

That welds step to word

And ties the tongue to its faults.

The flower will be red

When the first word tears the page,

Will thrive in the ooze, take color,

Of a lesioned beak, when the sparrow

Is bloodied, and flies from one

Earth into the bell.