Summer Rose
Behind diamond trips, rain drools madly
for sleep but is drunk in bitter shadows--
apparatus of wind and blue. Who says music
whispers smoothly through garden sun and
floods? Blood, muse, and vision crush some,
lusting produce and death.
*
Beneath the rose lies a pink moan, a
scream to incubate, shake and lick the
moon as if it were urge shot from summer
ground, purple, white and smooth.
*
Thousands sit like ships, watch storms as
if made of wood and time while it drives
sleep into pain, takes the moment away
to leave it chanting some black spray
recalling men never seen or felt again.
*
I have run the raw and heard a sweat, but
iron is weak in blue not rust. I put
friends with smooth-as-milk language
after always, placed those together
who think power under battle and, fast as
could, pound men to red lather or fiddle
like mothers crying for daughters eating
roses and thinking peach.
