subtext

Her roses break into my hands;

the petals drift through my fingers

like stars.  I don’t know where I’ve been,

or why she disappeared that night:

the trees danced darkly against the

darkening sky, like the troubled

edges of Van Gogh’s  Starry Night.

Each moment glistens like morning

rain, the sun sliding through the drops
as we slow dance tangentially.

There are no contours to divide,

no green topographical maps

to consult. If I knew where

I was going – – I couldn’t be lost.

Instead I am here, befuddled,

as her roses tremble to earth.