ROSE COUPLETTE

This

kiss

of

love:

a

gay

sin

in

our

half—

powerful—

dull,

savage

age.

My

shy

Rose

rose

from

some

shit,

it

grew

through

this

piss

and

sand,

smiles

piled

on

wan,

base

faces

escaped

(caped

like

kites

on

drawn,

low

bowstring

stems)

from

numb

earth

–mirthless

nest—

to

bloom

‘mong

strungout

louts,

ape

shapes,

crime

time

T

V

and

bands

of

love-starved

dwarves;

I

tried,

too,

to

plant

phantom

mums)

more

poor,

thin

sins)

but

cut

them

when

my

shy

Rose

froze.

© 2010 Duane Vorhees