We meant to prune the roses someday,
but didn’t. Now a single monstrous branch
bursts out of the jasmine, weighted down
by long-necked heads
untamed by shears.
Where one is severed, another sprouts
into a frenzy of shattered spirals
(It is a pleasure to behead)
Red-clenched buds burst open and fall,
and leaves behind on each lonely stem,
a naked face
a green-petalled star.