[Twenty degrees above horizontal.
Fifty degrees left of forward.
Lit severely by an indirect source, lies the corsage
five years dead.]

The pin held
two petite roses to my rented lapel,
still piercing the paper-wrapped stem.

The baby's breath
(gone the color of fallen leaves)
garnishes in drab contrast
the perfect burgundy-tinted buds.

A gossamer web
clinging to the lesser,
protruding
ninety degrees
from the direction of the stem.

This is what I am
to remember you by.

Timothy A. Clark
1997