rest on her laurels

how i

could not believe roses as if where
were they in the first place.
the thorns that hit are white and copper,
in another In
credible Tale the crown of wreath or wrath
is multi-pronged.

the moments memory waters narrow themselves &
the tunnel extends into only
I,
a stem of a vertical stretch that prunes the
Sun.
             in bed I am nudging my head into her chest,
             (the crown shrouded with deliverance)
apart, her sheets of flowers fall,
shrivelling under my tongue and then where were we
again?

how could I not believe roses as if they
were not there in the
    first place is untouched: that disintegrates under our
tongues and then where we are, again.
there is first silence, and then a dawn,
dust of dried hands, flowers unfold…

! it can only come from her –
dusk floats only from anomalous drip,
the storm that follows the thunder
splits our sides
snapping roses into perfect halves.

more water, more water…

–––––    ––     –––– –––            –––––––––––––   –    –––––––––––––––––––––––––––.

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