Why am I so surprised
that one of my favorite artists—known for her immersive
 immensities, galactic Ideas—also did
little paintings of flowers? Tulips? Yes,
 though who hasn’t taken,

 been given, as luminous subject, flowers
& time? Who hasn’t survived
 the vast dud of a dire season
with flowers, or the memory of some? & there’s a tone
 to these tulips, a large, very

 ancient, greatly grief-drowned
one, yet it’s clear, they’re blooming, right now, so why
 am I this surprised?
Why did I never think
 flowers & especially never tulips

 when I thought of her
work I thought I knew? These paintings. Stumbled
 upon while scrolling an otherwise ugly
art blog—they keep me
 up. Some nights I blame

 the galaxy, I beef with the Big Bang,
the Something
 instead of Nothing, the Is
of it all, plus this circus called Sentience.
 Other nights I blame

 the art world for not
displaying, the critics for not discussing this bright floral
 & parallel
universe of hers. But maybe it was me all along
 in the wrong,

 not catching the tulips’
cosmic scent, the artist’s telltale mythic scale—
 haven’t I seen them before, their humming petals tucked away
someplace? Weren’t they always hanging
 in my secret gallery?