No one noticed the roses
were burning,
had been burning since last night,
ever since the preacher went to bed
and stuck his hand out the window
to try to feel the rain, soft.
No one noticed the roses
were withering,
giving up their cheap red
to orange flame, letting
blue light lick the parted lips.
But the preacher is asleep now,
with his smelling of rain hand
draped across his face,
he is smiling
because he is dreaming of the barn
where he slept in the hay that carves
his back always, like the birch
carrying his heart and name,
and it is smelling of manure and smoke
and the sweet green he kneads with his teeth,
and her hair she is
braiding and unbraiding
all night.
