i 

 

this rose is 

soil spilled upon the ground,

the sound of spilling muffled by the carpet;

undrawn curtains smother up the

embers of a velvet dusk

and in the recent almost-darkness

air is stagnant

sweat is thick 

and in the fading afterglow of stained glass bleeding through the drapes 

a stillness waits to celebrate, at last, the night;

but, no. 

the ticking moment finds an extra breath:

an extra breath between the seconds

as the final moon-red drip of light descends 

and lingers with a hush upon a broken windowsill. 
 

ii

 

in my visions vampire squids descend beneath the depths into the darkness in which life begins

​
 

iii

 

The neon light at night in New York

from around the corner.

Deepest night, with red reflected in a gutter puddle

flickering in silence.

to stumble home after a bleary day of drinking and succumbing,

now, in vaguest hours of morning rising

red is dark and night is blinding

 

iv

 

lipstick to be drowned in on the lips of French jazz singers climbing back on stage at crowded bars after smoking 

at small towns all across the pyrenees mountains. 

hazy winds bring in the smell of hay and horse manure through open windows and mingle with the silence as their songs begin;

and there is mud outside in the meadows,

and in the imposing distance, a cliffside

where if you were to search inside some hidden granite nook, with luck you'd find

this rose 

suspiring for the empty night