In the summer of ’91 you joined
me in Andover.
Landing at Logan,
you came bearing news:
a rose
growing inside you—
as our love grew wild and free
like so many goldenrods, or
honeysuckle climbing fences rows
and spreading, spreading everywhere.
We stayed in a duplex—
29 Salem Street—
where we made love
dayandnight
and nightandday.
That golden summer day
you placed a single red
rose in a green beer bottle
and placed it on the chest
of dressers,
but roses never
last for long—
the red velvet
petals dry out,
droop over
and turn to dust.
Yet we did have
that summer day
now all dust,
and mist,
and memory.
