Closed-up
nice
and neat
and tight like
a fist,
a pursed
exotic
flower, perpetually
bent
toward
ideal morning—
silent,
you're so
proud.
Alone,
you're so
sharp.
Still,
you keep
hid.
Palm
of the hand—safe.
Bulb
of tomorrow—
sacred. Such
beauty
and utility
in
you, kid,
dovetail
perfectly—
so as to
completely
cancel
each other out.