geryon lay on the ground.
above and beyond him, around
the tower and the column of his breath
grew roses tangled
like hair
dragged through earth.
the roses had their own pulses
against the gray and blue sky.
they marbled geryon's sight
and he thought that if
he could just dive into pain
once again
as if into clean water
wash the moment
of his being
clean
of itself
wash himself clean
of himself
but expurgation was
an impossibility
so geryon looked
to the ribboned
rose-rimmed sky
as if to a knife.
but it was not a knife
and nothing
was safe