the roses speaking neatly piles of stems
beneath the window sill
have red little red voices           and talk wet
they,ve petals are                   moist vermilion
of the crass or dangerous     air cringing on their

                   thorns

i'm a holding, in my, it rests and moans
petals
         petals
                   petal's
hot crinkled ***** scarlet
i think my mouth would like to taste
the smiling blood in each sprig, magic
folly of delicious war, a boy, i,m a.
a woman, she's
cotton lovely bones

                                              a rose

docile pain. in my hand. ouch!