THE QUOTIDIAN ROSE
One meets another
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.
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