Coated Rose

We speak the scars, and grope the moon; and tears drip, a

Web of glass. We crawl the sky, and plead the rites; and

Often said: “our mercy, God”; and often lived, a pint of

Gin; and often love, a morning fit; for sober hearts—feel

Shame. He yells and screams, and conjures dreams—and

Panic breathes, a yard of leaves; and Northern rage: a

Beating vein; and Southern pain: a tyrant’s reign. In truth,

The hurt, a crooked scale: a box of ants: a kitchen stale;

But soap and sponge, a diamond glint: a pail on bleach: a

Face of flint; and speak the scars, a rising sun: a matted      

Rug: a spirit flung; and feel the love, a flaring flute: the

Lute of rain: a threaded suit. We speak the webs, and

Stretch the moon: a muddy tear: a pier of gloom; but loving

Hearts, a planted soul: a spoken light: a coated rose.