Blue Roses


I walk along the river’s edge, watching

a wedding through the window. Blue roses,

and their silhouette, steal

eyes from the poised bride,

paying service to her elders,

thanks for coming,

with a delicate hand holding

the back of her dress together, and

the other flat against the pane of glass. I stand

behind her, listening to something new, and think

I’ll be late for dinner,

turning away from what the petal’s wept, and

boys caught in airtight jars swear true – that everybody’s blue

when they make you so, like

milk curdling, or

memories of a lost love directing their antenna

at the bedsheet – falling,

to catch ankles in the off-white quicksand,

and show you what’s missing


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