A bend, a pirouette--a flower's dance
reflects in his shadowed eyes, and in her
thorned steps, the atrophying force rooted and redoubling.
Promise me, he breathes behind a teacup
while she is encapsulated in a globe of fading light.
The briny-dotted atlases sit reverent,
assembled beside the living-
room's songs of foreign heartbreaks, each seeded and
grown rampant ivy on her mind's towers, those unseen
cracks of weathering leaving only dreams
of dreams to recirculate like seasons in a day.
Worn linen florals ebb about her body, settling in her late autumn
and hoary winter languishes beyond the pane
where wind-animate limbs, a veiny applause, galely
knock, and her upon the balustrade of
Hermetic roses beneath her toes.
Were we ever as good as frozen petals?