Could you just grab the keys on your way out?
Try not to remark on the weight of the doors.
I did. I heard them.
If you can, don’t mention the concrete, or how it spins. Look up;
I replanted the violets!
Because, actually, I was this way first.
Darling, get the keys first?
If it’s alright, I’m going out.
I’ve got a dress that I sing for, it’s made from violets,
but, really, why am I talking to car doors.
I’ve held the living words in my ears, and I’m a few days early, but turn it up.
Here is where I look, but you’d never tell, for them.
I have nothing to say to them;
I’ll hold my breath first.
No, I’m living it up!
You need to get out.
No, they’re not broken. The hinges? On the doors?
Well, there’s a spare key for the back by the violets.
Fine, but I’m taking my violets.
Not that I want to take, but you’re better off without them.
It’s always a good sign, the slamming of doors.
You were always the first!
Get out, Get out, Get out
Goddammit, Listen up!
It hasn’t rained in weeks. I am dried up.
The windows blocked by wilted violets,
And, it appears, unsteady, I’ve been locked out,
Or taken two breaths and died with them.
My heart, a kind of melting heart, pleads the first.
And waiting in ink are the Shrinking Violet doors.
I’ve written up my own drag, for fading out.
Ditch them, the Ultraviolets.
The keys are past the first doors, if you could just-
PLUTO BLOOMING 