Deconstruction

This is sandbox, goosestep
in the fields of permanence.
A light fading at noon.
The rose bush beside our house
has bloomed for thirty years.

Cut it down, you announced
in tandem with the first fevers
of menopause.

Bewitch the world, you
shouted at wrinkles
and ankle pains.

Our daughter walked away.
Our marriage decided on
a Cuban vacation. Roses
pushed into an umber horizon.
Eyesight faded until —
we danced and danced.

In the predawn cool
we build card houses
and observe their demise
one kiss at a time
when kisses are the wolf wind.