sacred fire that tears the flesh from my bones
blowing the whispers of little flowers
into glass beads the color of the heart of the spring-blown rose,
and I am only the half-hearted silkscreen copy
of the portrait of some Roman *****
until it's realized a woman is never an only,
and when I know the slippery pink petals of your spring-blown rose
I know the heart of God, and in love, love, I trust.