The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—whither? It ends—But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a roseSomewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of rosesIt is at the edge of the
petal that love waitsCrisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touchingWhatThe place between the petal’s
edge and theFrom the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—whither? It ends—But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a roseSomewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of rosesIt is at the edge of the
petal that love waitsCrisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touchingWhatThe place between the petal’s
edge and theFrom the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
