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I cannot look away from the whorl of galaxies
tucked into each curled petal, the supermassive
black hole that sits on top of a stamen, dragging
all light and time towards it. In the pint glass
sepals shimmer with the burning of millions of dead
stars, buds flicker with a pulse of decaying planck
seconds, the superpositions of many possible worlds
blur each leaf and thorn and somewhere in each bloom
I am meeting you for the first time, walking around
the castle, studying in Birmingham, waiting to be
born, dying, watching a bouquet, unable to stay still,
unable to look away from the constant, dizzying spin.

I needed a prompt today so I made one. This is a quick free write from the erasure, which is taken from DIY magazine, October 2020.