This Rose Folds

This rose folds
White as cream
As thighs
With the edge of pink
And air
Of a night
filled room
in the throes
of candlelight.
Under that rose,
sheets petaled around
us, we form a flowering
rise and fall of reaching for
the tip of life
within, where we begin
wrapped in the smell of skin
the taste of sound.

This rose, -still soft,
drying on my desk wafts
chest and breast, fingertips, as I
bend to breathe its borders
red as blood
calling to flesh and blood.

This rose, now,
paper cloud,
on my wall that
I would wet
with tongue--
tear, open to air
to the treble
And base
of the body song
we've sung.

The work notes I write on yellow pads,
are not those I would sing,
those are veined in the parchment petals
Of this rose.