Bouquet beginning to smell,
I-- warmth of bedroom eyes
under stacks of books
in only lace-- soak
in french records
and vanilla extract
to hide from the cold and rot.
Plucking its stem (a petal), i sway
off the bed
Oil of my prints staining
violet pore with sediment;
sediment from the day that beat
dust on my windy face
and left me wondering
the shade of a rose.
e. chayes
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