inside the pink barrel of a wave

someone I would have fallen in love with
if we had met properly
sings about a murder

not a lethal act
not a swath of black
coating the sky

a murder of roses
as if petals
might become wings

to propel whole gardens
stems thorns and all
to flock overhead

a green roof raised in celebration
a flying carpet ride
through the seasons

a hothouse helicopter
that hovers protectively
over the city at midnight

the surfer's organic
pink crown
survives the ride

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