Poetry

The paintings of a jar of roses,
with a touch of Picasso,
the sunflowers like those of Van Gogh
some cosmos that looks almost waxen in a pot
are on the walls of our bedroom
and red roses in a glass vase
brave it through the last days of summer
while some are withering
and have dropped a few of their petals.
 
The lamp above the bed draws lines
against the wall and the ceiling
while another burns in the long corridor
while our clothes and underwear lay scattered
like some of the leaves outside
next to the bed.
 
The curtains are drawn open,
and bushes of roses, some shrubs,
a tree or two and flowers on long stems
cordon the street off
and the night smells of falling rain,
of the promise of new life
when you lay right against me
and I truly know that you do love me
 
and a tremendous lightning bolt slams down
in the front of the garden
and explodes in blue-white thunder
and we can smell the scorched earth,
can smell electricity
while in the backyard
the two dogs howl and cry
in fear and terror
and outside the whole world can fall apart
but here it’s only you and me.