There are a dozen red roses in the trash behind your house,
and the phone in your hand buzzes,
but you do not answer.
It’s all wrong, when love works backward and undoes you,
and even the air in your lungs begins to feel toxic.
Dear one, the scars that roses left may swallow you whole,
and night will still be night,
but I think you will find that, even then,
grace will still be grace.