A long eugenic past br reduces roses to br a vain and pampered caste. br br Their charm is artifice, br their fragile shell of cells br unfit for wilderness. br br Their languid symmetries br and anorexic airs br exalt deformities. br br A run of blossoms, thick br and tangled by the road, br displays a truer pick. br br Prefer the bindweed vines br that cannot stand alone br yet clench the mossy spines br br of trees and grasp as tight br as nightmares or disease br while hoarding hints of light. br br By cloning a delight, br obsessing towards some form, br we dull what should excite. br br A rose bouquet contrives br to label wordless joy br when nothing true survives.