The yellow rose smells like peach brandy. She holds her gold cup to the sun, she shows him her innermost sex, indelible smudge of burnt-orange pollen, nothing to hide. Bud or ripe bloom, leaves rust on one side, green another, gray thorns tipped with light. Even chewed or tattered a bit by wind and insect, there is nothing that is not perfect. A gray cat and a black cat stalk each other on the grass, pretending to be enemies, and birds drill the air with sound, intent on their own messages. Each thing is saying exactly what it means — what is it? If I were not so stupid from trying to be good I would hear what they know. As when the fullblown petals begin to curl, brown with lived beauty, they just drop, never having learned shame, on the first sprouts of clover, poking up around the tough gray roots.