Roses

Daunt the fain soul,
the dusky tango
in a bordello's bravado
bubbling French
and cheap champagne.

Celtic sanctuary
on the mountain summit,
where Victor Hugo writes nude
on linen paper and strews
pure marble half chords
and ferns supple with faun leaps.

Roses heaping
on the immense thighs of a goddess
save youth, sacred divine
flood silence belted bare
and draped in black crepe.