Only a rose
in an area window
telling the tale
of a sportive yesterday
or pressed in haste on someone
by somebody else in a bar
who’d been stood up but even so
wished love to dance over the evening
the rose knows nothing
of what it was meant to say
how it was dressed to say it
all it wants
is to sing back the glow of the moon
which never says what it’s said to say either
but happily listens while nosing apart
the dark of the rose’s room
fixing the way an old-gold blouse
pours down the back of a chair
the way a clock-hand
tickles the low hours
only a rose
only a moon
doing what nobody sees
free from mortal chat
of urge and contrition
in all the old co-opted places
platform calendar bluff
if the rose dreams
it’s of rain’s delirium
arching clear
of its birth-soil
if the moon dreams
it’s of birthing its own light
no more the cold courier
of sun-sweat
