guilty of grotesque self-deception
an old rose bush blooms in the drought
refusing to make plans that are realistic
and I, sensing a kindred straggley spirit,
stumble toward it's canes as if to an altar
down on my knees, and water it with tears

that my eyes couldn't see before is a crime
but forgetting one's self is a gift
and I have always been a thirsting savant

...a birdsong late at night when all is quiet...