harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
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i try to see the ascension in reverse of their watery thighs splayed skyward — the roses that climbed my ardis home grew for you and me one year when they had long been dead; yet you killed me anyway with a hand outstretched —
the roses were beautifully blood red on the old granite; their thicket of thorns laced the walls which had watched over me since i was small. and they knew how i would come when i was called all ways — even though it was long ago that nana's bark softly died out.
and now this season stretches out before us in sunshine and my lilies have bloomed but their whiteness was a lie since the funeral pyre that was mine all over: my love doomed — crossed — crossed out and no ceiling, no bedsheet, no closed eye could ever blot it out.
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