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All roads
connect and all
colors make black and

godless angels are what
follows me

I will hate those
paniculata blooms when they
are old
and dried
and dusty
in a green glass vase
in a dim corner
of your dining room

but on their woody stems
out in the yard
they lush over
dark pink and
symmetrical to either side
an arresting October funeral pyre

die on the vine then
connected
when December begins
at last

to furiously blow.

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I think its
untrue and worse when you
say things like

there are no second chances and

I tell you
I have to tell you
I don't bother to tell you

that you're wrong

I say things like

everything is better
on the ground
I love the ground

my feet were on the ground
on the sidewalk
in the round-bulb light at night
outside that old theater
one foot back
the other leaning forward
to kiss your lip
which was salty from popcorn
and mine sweet
from pink lemonade
I put one arm
around your neck
when I kissed you
which is funny for a girl to do

later and only once
you turned me towards you
when we were lying
on the ground
by placing a palm
at the smooth of my hip
and pulling
and I turned

the ground was a chance
I love the ground

I love the two chances
that happened on the ground

I will bury you in the ground
I will sprinkle you
on the ground
I will predecease you
and turn into the ground

that was your second chance
to stop saying things
about second chances
anymore.