Out From Under

There are no roses or thorns, no squirrels
In the world of words which is not quite a world

There are no roses or thorns, no mice
No scent or blood, no moon tugged tides

No brides or grooms, only names that breath
Tries to glue to wild roses and their fierce thorns,

To scents and to blood, to noise and joys while 
They resolutely keep slipping  out from under

Not to mention the lightning and  then thunder
Not to mention the  lighting and then thunder