Knockout Rose

There is nothing but this

moment of purple October

with its fertile dusks.

The thrips have paused

to watch the oaks wetten.

The larkspurs have come

into their roundness. Can you

feel the pines flirt with the light?

Would you brush a little onto my face?

I arch against your palm

until you cannot look away.

Somehow, this has become

our normal. A young girl

might do anything

for a hint of light on her face.