When asked
in the right tone
on a morning
without painful weather,
she replies:

Every song
I have tasted
in June
turns crimson
by the final

chorus. The bridge
smells like lilacs

only when
a pedal steel
bends the stems.

Locked inside
a storage vault,
sculptures recite
odes to black
cherries. I know

they are dancing
behind the blue
curtain. My yellow
is not the same
distance as yours

from Saturday
in an empty garden.