Miracles are grapes
and flaws.

Your honeysuckle
scrambles
for the attention of
the damned,
and my consciousness
confers in empathy
with the stylistic
rosebuds
on your morning paper.

Scoff, scoff, you are an
Alaskan winter,
a forest with nightmares.

The earth would open
its dark to you,
but your goodness
perpetuates the
hardy release
of a pass-time’s
wonderings.

Oh, for one slick drink
of that hidden air,
that mumbo-jumbo
holocaust
that creeps and stings
and purrs with divinity.

Liking it won’t disappear
the rough, the hurt,
and yet your liking
fills my sandpaper
with an indescribable
melody
perusing
your inner sanctum.

Condemn
your holy inconsequence,
release that intellect,
that budding urge.

Your illegality
pursues you,
keeling at your
rainbow
footprints, an image
of your
worldly desires.

Redistribute your
sunshine remedies,
and disbelieve
those horror movies.

Make the death
of inches gone by
regret following
your arid trial of hazel
and rowan branches.

Return your
gift-wrapped infinity,
but steal the bow
and place it atop
your spiny shell.

There is nothing legitimate
in your copy-cat
these days,

so let the roses fall.
Let the roses fall.