Once I touched a rose that was so smooth
like dew light slid off its petals. Dark-
ness hung like smoke above it – the work
of one who loves a paradox. A work
designed to deconstruct the beauty of smooth-
things and cold as spilled milk on a dark
table. Intrigued I touched this dark
rose, its soft tissue fading, a work
bitter beneath my hand and yet so smooth.
O how I long to forget, so smooth, your dark work.