IX

Each one clasps the stamen of the hurt iris,
each a brief flower becoming its own colour of decay.
Each wears the echo of her blood
and is the flame’s meaning.
Each is the little death in death’s heart,
each one to a man without a solstice.
When she’s not laid below
the parallel cloud of another desire,
you’ll find her alone in the garden of aching stones,
claiming this, at least, her own,
the viola’s dream in the moss.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s