the roses speaking neatly piles of stems
beneath the window sill
have red little red voices and talk wet
they,ve petals are moist vermilion
of the crass or dangerous air cringing on their
i'm a holding, in my, it rests and moans
hot crinkled lusty scarlet
i think my mouth would like to taste
the smiling blood in each sprig, magic
folly of delicious war, a boy, i,m a.
a woman, she's
cotton lovely bones
docile pain. in my hand. ouch!