No ideas you say? (Vixen's Den)

Still no things yet, only poems

And nothings that just materialize,

And inventions of the tired mind,

But alas, no things, themselves,

You see, only ideas.

For somewhere an ideal flower

(which does not exist,

for I just said so)

opens and reveals to me

the fragile nature of-

something.

I could pick it, or tear it to shreds-

But I make a poem of it.

Now, it is immortal-

And still does not exist.