Time and time again
rose petals unspool from your chest,
floral television.

Even the starlings know by now
what’s being done. Drips of another
world, an eastern tongue, like

syrupy pills, not prescribed
but there’s enough to go round.
Wash down with ginger ale, a sugar plum

for the road. Afternoon’s bleeding on.
Boy, call again when you can
in discreet tones. Don’t need me to say

it’s better when names are unknown.