If I could pluck a rose from its bed of thorns,
bring it to your bed, lay it on your open palms,
your breath would fire that flower into thought
that sears the empire, engulfs with flames
all that is not desire, all that’s not ecstasy . . .
restore what you were when I felt I knew.
(16 June, 4 July 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander
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