Ah, a witty rejoinder there, Max. And the allusions rosy, indeed…
Doug
On Jul 8, 2015, at 7:46 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> from a derelict garden
> just round the corner
> I plucked a rose,
> took it home to her,
>
> my wife sick in bed.
> She smiled, inhaled,
> placed the rose-vase
> beside her head
>
> settling for a needed
> good night’s sleep.
> Next morning - another
> bad night it was - stung
>
> in the dark by - see? -
> those black live specks
> that came in on the
> petals of the rose.
>
> I can’t see them.
> Rose, art thou sick?
> The invisible mites
> swarmed in the night
>
> and found out
> her pale cheek
> for their appetite.
> I’m binning you quick.
>
> Aphid? - or thrip?
> None would skip
> a plant for a human.
> Rose, I acquit you.
> Wife, something
> else bit you.
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
Done in by creation itself.
I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
Robert Kroetsch.
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