The night's a fevered garden
Garnished with exotics;
The gorgeous grease of dewdrops,
And constellation daisies.
But crowning bushy nebulae,
Eclipsing gaudy flowers of the sun
The lunar bloom spins fragrant petals
Out upon my silvered eye.
Such irony that airless rock
Might bud and swell so well,
Petalled porcelain or
Vibrant marble shavings -
Who can tell?
Would that I could reach and pluck
Albino roses from the air like this,
Where every fold of night's alive
And every star a kiss.
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