What Kind of Flower

What kind of flower is this? Does it relate
To someone’s vision of the world? Who cares?
Who gives a damn fig whether Anjou pears
Are poires d’angoisse, or just how much I hate
The idiot notion that Nature and Fate
Are intertwined, as if somebody dares —
Some little deity, caught unawares
By oceans’ size, or that balloons inflate.

Don’t mention wasps, the delicate precision
Of walrus tusks, how prairies got so flat,
Recurved beaks, bitter nectar and the bat,
Or nictitating membranes’ spirit vision:
I’ll have to treat that with total derision,
Just as it deserves. I spit on that.