Eating roses

Bruges

The garden rises from the river,
swallows up my pasty feet,
and climbs my belly with a flower,
claws as sharp as scent is sweet.

Escaping to my bedroom,
I hide in my retreat,
and keep the window half ajar
to flavor my defeat.

From every frame and gutter,
the edges come to bleed.
Down in the river garden,
the leaves and ripples feed.