And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

— T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton                       

***

 
 The roses had the look
 of flowers that are looked at –
 bruised thumbprints on their necks
 where someone stopped to smell and smile.

 One was a wound,
 open under a band aid;
 one was a thorn
 in the flesh of the night;
 one shivering, 
 the gray arm of the wind
 wrapped around her waist;
 one with petals like knees
 freshly scraped against the gravel.

 All blushing like actors
 caught mid-scene,
 unsure if the applause was coming.

Beneath the floral skin, 
a throb –
a secret pulse that
blooms and blinks
under the gaze,
like a held breath
waiting for the next one
to press close and say
they know the type
quite well.