The biology of a dirty flower

And on a trawl through the morning roses    
I was able to distinguish the artificial sheen    
of the many petals, sparkling falsely    
with the slap dash waxy dew of youth    
   
It is only the highway where I see    
the curve. The roadside flowers    
brighten the blur of motion;    
fragrances sing out from the din    
   
the subtlest wobbles slut-wrapped in silk cloth
faceless yet still personal.    
Unobtainable magic : the dirty stigma    
are magnetic fire to this moth