Classic Poem

They should have called the thistle —
well, it is that we, we love each other.
Our heads side by side have a purple
flamebed over them. We are one, we love
ourself. The cows do not eat us nor tread
on us. It is a little like the lichen on
the blackened stones, a foaming winecup
with thorns on the handle. They say
jackasses eat them. Yes, and reindeer
eat lichen, lick them from the stones.
And we would be eaten — as England ate
Scotland? No.
It is the color they must eat if
they would have us. That offers itself
but that alone. The rest is for asses
or — forbidden. Purple! Striped bellied
flies and the black papillios are the
color-led evangels. Ah but they come
for the honey only. And so — a thistle.