This obsession I have with roses,
with you,
eloquently, day and night,
makes no sense. It plays over and over
in my mind.
Stigma, far better than actual life;
comedy, far worse.
To stand in front of my light,
why place hypocrisy before me
like that? Why shimmerless? Our biography
of a sneeze. How a “bless you” discounts it all.
Dishonors it.
Aphids spread their colorless stylets,
sucking sap, feeding continuously there.
While the statues, outside, delightful.
They have natural. (Charming white
on white.) These pretty paths
with lanterns.