All but the rose,
they say in love,
can be an enemy;
but when I told the rose
of you, my love,
it burned red with jealousy.

None but the tear in love,
they say,
can dance so merrily;
they're saying less
as a-like a heart
you ballet to poetry.

ROSE SHRAPNEL
for Christ my Lord

The hearing of my broken heart,
its rose petal skin,
heard your perfume on someone else,
sensual echo of where you'd been;
rose shrapnel to leave it youth-torn
and rose bud numbed;
my torn-petal heart it dumb and deafed
and deaf and dumbed.
Limbless sign language
to beg to beat a retreat,
asking why you'd use a weapon of war
on such touch tender meat.