Fate is kind. Irises, wived to the flash;

the shutter’s shudder, a catching of breath.

Catch: release. Violets, wild, violent in death

(cut, wrapped wet, in newsprint’s daily gash),

these blooms, at last, outlast the image-crash:

your photograph, sunbled. All that’s left.

The sweet fulfillment of—sing, into that cleft.

When you wish upon the sun your dreams are ash.

Can you keep a secret, longing? The gate

too open, too close: lips parted to soul.

Hurricane teeth. A tongue, lightening, rolls

out, transparent, that flowering was. Wait.

Then red up the rose to make yourself whole.

As dreamers do. Red up a rose, then pass.