When hushed grey horizons scale into rose.
All pedals are eyelids in a stand of wild roses.
You’re breaking stride. Moist wind billows
a coral sheet in shims of yellow-rose.
Bruised blooms in her hectic garden,
the hidden pushed, the overt arose.
The secret eye is slow and takes a field—
jagged leaves grow among blunt roses.
Should one collect and part such flowers?
The turnkey eye of the watchful rose.
Those who see the flailed hedgerow know
she’d rather bleed herself then clip a rose.
Orchard Ghost
dress
billows
indigo
apples grow
bend
bow
the boughs
low
time slows
afterglow
along
long rows
long rows
eyes know
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