Softer, the roses grew softer that we gave each other.
In a corner of the dark table you wrote: paper, it was
cleanliness, whatever you put there, spilling wine,
or even when you lit it. You were crying
onto the waxed wood.
The little metronome
that meant you were a child
crossed and recrossed the thorns,
the fins, the full glass
illumined. And it could go
much faster in the sunlight,
that was slowly falling
petals. Suddenly your hands
were mute as a garden.