in tight pant pockets. The petals
bleeding out their color. Not lying flat
as a silver dollar.  Not as a dog
wearing a collar. Blanket the sky

no sun and no water. Penned
as a pig for the next slaughter. The bloom
cut off in mid-afternoon. Willows weeping
sweeping the air. To not see

again, this crimson friend with perfumed
hair is a lot to bear. A headless standing stem
doesn't gander attention. Not as a headless
horseman galloping through a graveyard

under the pitch-black night, with only
the light of twinkling stars. They don’t last
sealed in tight jars. In the wrong hands,  
a rose only mars.