Cezanne Scenery

The one who share shoulders with me raises her eyebrows 
at the pop of my back and soon slumbers.
She is a rose of sorts. Cyan, violet, and auburn petals 
flourish as her seams. 

One more stop, a class of all colors clusters at the door
and almost in one movement: a concrete segment of 
unknowing flesh.

The rose awakens and exposes her naïve nature to me.
She would call it kindness. Everyone has a different name
for these trinkets of consciousness after all.

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