She Spoke of Roses

She spoke of roses.

I didn't know her,

but I knew she had deep roots.

So I went to her house.

She spoke of doors, the kind that open

into cabins illuminated by stained glass windows

and of the path a star makes

as it burns down into watery suicide.

She called me to her bed, and I

plunged in from off my cliff.

We swam in place, transfixed

by weeds that grew around our feet.

Then we passed away into the sky;

and with care, ingrained

our initials into a dome of bright lights

beyond heaven's gates

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