No rose, too
young aware, slow bursts to rust
Blood bloom;
wanting wing, knowing, strives
Tight clutched,
down-suppressed against the sap
Vertical thrust
to a sun’s green peeled sigh.
Which doubt can
claim the when of Time’s rebuff
Grown before the
graft, and placed near where
And how in
strangled Time’s reversed dry sands,
Deciding who
shall name illicit care?
Covert moon drawn
breath unbreathed beyond
My thorn bound
hands repressed; white-bone-
Baked, dreamed
black, in dust perfumed before,
Falls blown
petaled at my feet on stone.
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