To true roses uplifted on the bilious tide of evening

To morning-glories dotting the crescent day

The oval shape responds:

My first is a haunting face

In the hanging-down hair.

My second is wine:

I am a sieve.

My only new thing:

The penalty of light forever

Over the heads of those who were there

And back into the night, the cough of the finishing petal.

Once approved the magentas must continue,

But the bark island sees

Into the light.

It grieves for what it gives:

Tears that streak the dusty firmament.