Group work

a poem about the comforts of a group working towards mental clarity

I hate those flowers
wall flowers
pink, alive, breathing
mamalian skunk noise
revolves the blue floor
eats my feet
form a V,
a tea cup rests
on her arm-
chair, forms a crooked circle
of cats in conversation,
tones of beauty and sensuality
overcome the boats.
I hate those flowers
like a woman with legs
shut to the wind, the men
fuck our hands
tying the yarn blankets
cover our heads
distill our thoughts,
form easy chair clouds,
doorways exist, child,
like a foot
fallen
to sleep.