Paul Kloppenborg >

Roses in December

Mutant summer multiplies a life,
flower, man, sun,
in brain clock grids,
extracting
the attar matrix from love

and
my cells are chalked as decimals
-in praesentia-
and
life's turbine hammers

Cooling numerals
like sprockets of oxygen collapsing in tubers
like isotopes measured in the blood of roses

and the inertia of time closes us as pods,
as a locus of bones pairing,
kinetic,
regular,
hydraulics within stars
gristly filaments congruent to seasons,
in the pivots of sleep and breath and soil,
hybrids crank finite neath the sky's glands,
in murmurs of logarithms from our little springs and wire,

and
my particles are cancelled on quantum
-in absentia-
and
the rose's stamen falls

Corroded petals
like lobes pointing thought to the sun's cog
like seeds variable in an octane kiss

and the clonal filaments are blown away
and the equation's gone soft
those who pulsate the titian sac of days now seminal angled
in the logic of our engines
integers are picked from the earth's keratin
as post-mitotic buds,
floating,
dropped,
the fission that elements steam and age and root
is added to winter's graph by pulleys of separation
as zygotes, all fibril and stalk, rush towards death