← v7n1, Spring 2008
Poetry · Volume 7, Number 1

Three Days in Flower

Monday he went away.

The moon was in her sign,

the weather smiled,

she cut Jacques Cartiers,

thornless,

pink as in holiday.

From a champagne flute

they waved intimate,

buds opened,

centers fulfilled;

she dreamed in their arms,

cloud and city,

music swelled.

Thursday

one wrinkled, mauved,

one sang alone,

one threatened suicide

on glass-topped table.

He flew home.