Rose

if with my voice, my voic

Then, I saw it—you, actually.

lingers on their sweet tongues.

I’d like to tear these petals with my teeth.

I’d like to investigate these hairy selves,

their beauty and indifference. They hold

their breath all their lives

and open, open.

The hearty blossoms persevere, unfallen.

No one

notices the population of shadows crowding his bed, or his favorite

white rose, breathless and sweating.

There will come a day

one of us will have to imagine this: you,

after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,

while I braid your hair.

the rain

touches me, touches us

over and over, changes each of us,

shoulders and lips, roses and stones,

my love and the world,

all things which fit well.

will you never recover?

Were it not for the rain, I’d linger

and maybe I’d weep.

and with a gravity not unlike desire,

it conjured sadness

named you each day you remained:

Scorn, Banish, Grieve, Forgive, Love.