Rose City

The bleared petals
in my failed photographs

bloom again in the streets
that become, this time

each year, a city of roses.
From railings, over trellises,

I'm offered cup after cup
of blank: well-bottom colonies,

foil to the sharpened mum
or the black-eyed Susan.

Like holes, the roses
won't articulate,

resisting me
just as they resisted

the camera's perspicacity,
its tiny window trained

on overflow.
I can hear them

tear at the earth's precision:
quicksand, blind road,

the siren sheen
of the magnifying glass.

Copyright © 2004 Christina Pugh All rights reserved
from Rotary
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission