the rose unfolds her yawning arms

that would outstretch in early mornings

we sit wrapped up in a mountain of sheets

with peaks of skin that rest in her bedroom's filtered light

almost a while ago, you said you'd never listen

now, look at you two lying face to face in a corner of her room

her wood-panelled walls are lined with thinly gold-plated frames remembering

her when she had her brothers and sisters to rest on

she holds you close pressing her forehead against yours

emptinesses are never empty and, this close,

you can see the multiple spokes that connect her centre to her perimeters

which spin and spin and bite at ankles

this close, you can feel community in breath

as you understand and counsel

one another's lips and eye lids

i was disfigured, by the looks of it, but

now i've become part of her shape

viewing her fallen hair in all landscapes

but now her words grow anemic

where has that blush gone that

always revealed itself past the darkness

- m. a. allen