weaves roses through poetry's bones.
we have deflowered and made rest the shrewd verse;
the metaphor no longer needs coaxing.
the metaphor no longer needs coaxing.
eternal spring (ashen bones),
we have long awaited the bloom--
our lips, four petals of tight bound silk
open up blind to everything but
what is forever blooming hot and red,
and what's ours we keep in petal pockets, unspoken.
and what's ours we keep in petal pockets, unspoken.
respectively,
no spite in concealing once blemished
soft spots,
it would just simply spoil it to say.
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