The Night Roses
And then I could feel their strange weight, wet as night as they fell
from her hands, even the stems flush with scent and dew—and
in the center of this large bouquet, too large to hold—even the
cabbage a too-large rose, even its leaves now petals—as every daily
thing is remembered and fondled as a rose—even the folded night,
even the silence of its singing.
Even its dark song.