blood petals, pouring on
the table. A crimson blanket
settles as snow on the cables. Outside
the picture window a cardinal

flies as the rose
drops her head like a sleepy
child. The thorns pointing out
like fangs in a viper’s mouth. I remember

September when this rose was
full bloom. And every man smelled
sweet perfume. But didn’t he
have to pluck her. After he ****** her,

flung her like feed for the cattle
into a trough. His garden
in rows of stems, with their heads
cut off.