Primal Patterns

Outstretching the sunset,
you alter my angles:
sowing feathers and ash
on my orderly rows,
my amber veined onions.

I, wanting only frail
frazzled perfection, am
left spitting in the wake
of your snakeskin decay.

The roses grow only
so red to distract you,
while I hide my patterns
in petulant haystacks,
wiping your fingerprints
from my snapdragon dreams.