Friday, July 12, 2013


Love is not a rose
It is a thistle
With no place
Safe to touch,
Without being
Rising stiff
In the sun
With a blood flush
To its head
Vibrant, shaken
In the brisk wind
Until it drips with dew
The ache shaped
With each shake
And I shake, too,
Aching to make
You take it all
Inside of you,
Each prick
Leaving bits
Of blood on your lips
For you to lick
And my lips on your lips
So I lick each drip, too,
No rose tasting nearly
As sweet

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