I know how many days there are in a year.
I've counted then all,
twice.
I counted and counted, waiting for you,
I counted on you but you never came.
Why?
My roses aren't glasses.
my roses are dead and sit on a shelf,
holding up memories.
covered with dust.
They have forgotten what roses are.
Cutting up magazines,
searching for eyes,
noses, mouths,chins,
sorting and re-sorting.
The duplication of you is
vague at best.
The days of the week are easier to count.
They are cyclical and
never unrhyming.
day, day, day, days
I count them instead
for years are too lond.

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