L.M. Rivera

THE QUOTIDIAN ROSE

on a dusty road.

Another holds

a burning chandelier

and screams.

Elevations are lit

by day-light,

however belated

they may be.

Then the place—

then the ashes—

then the names.

After nightfall,

the feeling of death came.

Panthers made cuts

in the ground,

though

that’s hardly believable.

I ran back,

only to find

that something

black was spilt

and that you

were someplace else,

singing

to the desperate crowd.

I could hardly see

their faces

but the light

gave delicate traces.

A blind god

pushed on,

his word

a bludgeon.

But I’ve seen

the red

and all

the rest.

I don’t need

to pick up

life

from the unkind ground—

sick as I am,

sick,

as you’ll become.

This is where it’ll happen,

where all is

ground.

And a bull

made those cuts,

likely.

You can’t throw

your arms around him

or let your mind wander

in Brothel Music.

Simply,

allow it to be stolen—

vanishings roaring

in the dark.

Questions of money

will be asked,

like nude forms

falling

to the floor.