Untitled

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.