My newest rose looks like

the undoing of certainty;

 

like thistle on the marshes;

 

like whispers of obscenities

on the quiet side of harshness;

 

like tarnished sickles left to pasture 

resting up against the crossbeams

of a long-dilapidated tractor;

 

like bees addicted to nicotine.

 

At first I promised her

“I will not let you weep,”

 

but that was heartless.