Crushed
At dusk I cut the roses, now
they tongue the night, breathing
damask, clove, the heat
they’ve swallowed, their spiny
legs entwined, as they swim
they lure you from the yoke
of your sorrowing, stony field you furrow
come back to the hollow
of my throat, haunch and hip bone
our slack and sutured skin, speechless
opening, the roses drink, are drunk
bloom into ruin
as do we, handfuls of earth
our fourteen thousand midnights
brief blur
in the fiery revolutions
I can’t hear the petals sigh
but I believe, already
a pink scallop has fallen
we’re going down
with the roses, darling, your mouth
crushed against my mouth
Plume:
