Here with this dirge, this garland
of white roses. Let me make
a pagan’s necklace of them.
I’ll have one last dance
around the maypole
until it gets too dark to see.
Then I’ll sit and watch
all the houselights go on
lit by lives I imagine to be happy.
I can still see the neighborhood,
the house I wanted to own,
but never lived in. Broken trellis
and the rusted porch swing.
The face looking out from
the widow’s peak window.
Give me another step,
another chance to weave roses
into something that resembles
a string of uncontrolled fire,
Saturn’s brave halo,
the red wing of a hummingbird
hovering above
our gaping mouths.
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