You gave me a rose
last time we met.

I told myself
if it bloomed
our love would bloom,
& if it died-

O I did not
consider
the possibility.

It died.

Though I cut
the stem
on a slant
as my mother
taught me,
though I dropped
an aspirin
in the water,

it hung its head
like a spent cock
& died.

It stands
on my desk now-
straight green stalk,
blood-red clot
of bud
drooping
like a hanged man's
head.

Does this mean
we are doomed?
Does this mean
all lovers
are doomed?

O my love-
I have not read roses
as amulets
in seven years. . . .

Which doom
is worse?
To love
& lose?

Or to lose
love
altogether
& not care
whether roses

live or die?