“Doubtless God could have made a better berry but doubtless God never did.”
William Butler
(as to the strawberry)
Dawn
I
The scent of winter roses is a sweetness that appears suddenly, subtly
Soaring inside you, a metallic cold,
Rich and weak
A woman alone
Waiting for tales of Arab astronomers
A woman alone
Smoking her last ashes,
Not believing in rebirth
II
Whispery sound of ram, a breeze of roses at the crack of dawn
A dry cough of blue-black notes.
Some water, lilac wine,
Unsteady as a man-child blackened with the sun, her heart
all that tar & soot for dampened hands
all the blackness that turns to leaves.
It was all a breeze covering the burnt smell of meats, say you,
Walking away
Easily
III
Rose picking at the crack of dawn
To the tambourines
And bony desires of the weak
Searching for bones
Dancing Chypre, golds of wind,
Whirls of smoke as it dies to chalk
Whiteness is a disease.
“There will never be anyone as beautiful, as smooth, as melancholy as he…”
Winter roses crack into you.
(Lovers and dreamers need their berries and meats)
IV
With all the damp bones and songs, the roses,
Is Timelessness
Ticking the crisp sound of insects, growing leaves
It is hard starting mornings
Fallen roses.
Cold mornings are hard
A last cigarette, and one more song.
