[The speaker sits in a warm, fragrant night and imagines the darkness itself blooming like black flowers, dotted with pale stars. He turns to Mandy Lou and sees the same flowering night concentrated in her face — a black rose. Her presence is intoxicating, compared to the scent of poppies and opium, and it stirs him physically.
But he does not move. The mood is reverent, almost hushed, with desire held in check. His twitching fingers show the effort. The final question explains why: a picked flower doesn’t last. He would rather let the moment — and the woman — remain unplucked than destroy what he finds beautiful.]