Foxglove

Digitalis purpurea

Pretty poison, the flowers turn plum-colored

when they shrivel in summer heat like bells

emptied of every rattle. Any dullard

who puts leaf or petal to his tongue feels

his heart give way because the digitalis,

call them fingers, of this delicate glove tip

the heart's balance, write a verse

that ends with a man's ruddy lip

kissing the garden's loam. Observe the single stem,

the sway of weighted blooms, the leaves

unfold a vase fluting profusion, its brim

tinged with medicine that gives

the heart a hand, strengthens that reddish thumping flower,

itself a poison too, reckless, fickle, counting out the hour.