candlelight, faint but sure,
against the curve of your
chin, flickering as if even
the darkness it fights to
ward off terrifies it—

who am I to say if you’re
a Maestro or not?

a rose, a beautiful rose,
on my breast, spreading

until my white gown is
soaked with it.

—I am a rose—

(with a disgusted scream you
crash the violin down onto my
head and all seems lost for a
moment but I hear it, I hear the
music, Maestro, in my head, and
these roses, they smell of copper.)