1 It is winter and the roses are blooming. Dark cauldrons of life their hungry edges moisten in the morning. I watch while ants play upon a rose petal like caraway seeds in red wine. Once, a petal loosed from its hinge funnelled sweet scents into my lap. 2 I bit into a rose petal and dreamed of blood bubbling from my lips deliberate as a Dali still-life unconscious of reality but certain of pain. 3 From a bloody sky the rain dripped rose petals carpeting the streets with wet velvet. When the storm ended I lifted my face with the scent of roses and evaporated into the sun.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com