A shriek of red, which blinds my window,
plaits braid up from water
as if they don’t need it. Six petals,
four stamens; a wodge of green
spears the light.

It’s the upper buds
that capture, their sly wink, a dog’s
penis, a lipstick among the folds,
loving that sheath before the entrance
of flame, of shock.

A small bleed
of white on the largest sepal,
a landing strip, a lowdown scent
as I’m striped with pink pollen.
I pinch out the dead.

At the base,
still two to be born, drained,
as if they’ve walked the streets all night,
pale coral against a grey October.
A life that’s unambiguous. Quiet.