The Thing You Can’t Say

It scrabbles
like a ragged vine
of aphid-ridden
roses climbing
up vicissitudes

of crumbling brick –
clawing onto it
from instinct: rising
out of blind refusal:
prey to passing

and dispassionate
perusal: indifferent
strollers mildly
wondering how
long the virtually

barren thing can
possibly go on
before it dies:
still sending out
eroded tired pinkish

petals framing
spotted yellow
and beseeching
eyes: pleading for
a pollinating bee:

worn dowager,
diseased,
psychotically
persisting in
a folly of seduction;

breezes intervene,
flutter it into
appalling mockery
of prettiness:
pitiless.

.