WEBVTT

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"Black Roses."

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None, only burgundy
or violet seen.

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You never imagine fields
burning with larvicide.

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Black magic.

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Lavaglut.

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Ruby celebration.

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Holy Grail of botany
furled like ironwork.

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Not even carnations
split along their stems

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to drink the florist dye
approach the order of the rose.

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Some say petals scorch
easily, the symbol

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turned vampiric, floribundas
staked from Syria

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to parlors of the art nouveau.

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Always a rose
entwined with rose,

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given an ardor or
vengeance, kiss of death,

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blood of martyrs, novel,
noir, Baccara, Barkarole.

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Black rose dried
in vellum, black

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rose frosted in nitrogen,
black rose tattooed.

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Genus prized for
being almost true.

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Essence of dream.

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Apothecary.

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How I loved you whittling
thorns, loved you not.

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In the lizard dark,
no fire in the orchid.

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No moonlight.

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Nothing but a blue hoop turned
along the horizon, the street

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a white pastoral framed
in the afterimage.

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Everything remains,
decanters pouring, no wine.

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The wedding mantled in
blue, the grim pandemic

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painted in poison cosmetics.

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If I think of music,
it's not the snow blown

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through the artist's skull, nor
bergamot crushed in its mortar,

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not the slap of Double Dutch,
children's marble games,

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nights the mariners
return, hands

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carved against the carapace.

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It is the Flemish harbor
mantled around us, panic,

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blood rise, village of blue.

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