A Psalm of Rescue (144)

There will be nothing left
but the brown curls of dry roses
at the end of May.
There will be
not even a scent of you
on a shirt or towel.
The slatless benches
will be passed by,
and the question of flowers
will be answered with a pot.
Your weeping for truth,
my carnival of certainty--
It passes.
It passes like your shadow
in front of me,
or like your breath
when you speak
across from me.
I do not see your breath
or feel the prick of your
words on my cheek,
the rouge and deadly imprint
of my desire for you.