Nothing is sure. When we plant roses,
beetles arrive, burrow
in the blooms,
strip leaves skeletal.
We tap dozens into soapy bowls,
but they return as if from afterlives,
copper-winged, iridescent,
famished and over-sexed.
There is always another hunger,
another living desire wanting
what we thought we possessed,
improvident with need and driven
to devour every succulent leaf.
How shall we share ourselves
with this world? What can we give?
What can we keep?
