Sub Rosa Madrigal
I know time lives in me
& not the other way around.
Many mornings it wants out,
silver crevasses round the eyes.
Or in corpse of midnight, also,
picking poor heart’s padlock, spending . . .
but wait.—What does it mean to spend
the days my love is flown
if I believe time lives in us, & not
the other way around? Clippers
in hand beneath an iron arbor,
wielding insect spray, I pause
in a bower that has blown with eros.
I mean roses. Fresh as flesh. What time is.