It is the hundred thousand symbols
caught in the ironed silk red, red through,
curved around the fingers that are not
dipped near the stamen; the space left
by the fireworks burning out the space
before the ash feathers, manna, along
a thousand invisible stalk-lines; what
we expect buried within the hip and
time; what with attention we stretch
into both what we knew it would
become and something much, much,
more the way all colors are when they
are bound in the fleshy crystal of a petal;
what it is is not the fibers wound
for the sun or the air or the eye but the what
it is, the Rose, is a poem.
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