the rose bush

the forrest calls my name
but my ears were pigeons
discussing politics and copulation,
wasting time, waiting for the
moon to remember my sanctuary
and where it ended up.

-these walls have dreamed you-

the intense colors of these trees,
these yellows and these greens
that I cannot paint,
raising themselves through the sea,
blinding the quiet man, and
letting us watch in silence,
thinking of frozen bus rides and
June beginning the rest of our lives
for us:

“here we stand with the rose bush
behind us, sirens and thorns, and all.”


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