I have not been one to adore to adore the rose,
it reminds me how quickly
the dismembering caress of man
brings death in the face of love.

You can't help but notice their bloody heads
outstretched to taste the light,
outside the market where they are picked again.

Covered in a clear raincoat,
they travel in sweaty palms to new loves' delight;
only a knock on the door interrupts the short journey home.

A smiling face invites the rose into her heart,
which lies warm from the hearth and dim, dish-reflected candlelight.

The rose droops over its glass coffin, falling
to the last wax dripping sun
which wavers in lovers' rhythmic motion of night.

By morning, the tablecloth, stained with the mess
of spilt wine and rose petals, is removed.

Love again, wilted with the rose.