oh rose, upon your lips i spoke
the hour, as if day broke
into a flower, the cup
of your name from my mouth
to yours, the south-
ward rose-head turning
into sunset, reddened
as if ending
where it began, and i too
drawn in down to your sweet bud
and dropping fullblown petal.
compressed into the light of your
circumference, rose in your mystery,
your thick scent and nodding bloom
at every stage, sheaves red,
what they were, what
they would always be.
the harvest of you not scent,
not tight bud, dropped petal, nor sere leaf
but smell and taste
as if you washed up upon
the radiant-in-all-colors shore
of yourself,
and i to witness it,
dawn-sunset
rose
upon which the dew forms.
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