“Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being 
No-one's sleep, under so many lids.”


Remembering Rilke’s Rose. 
The four petals of a broken red slumber,
The seven petals of an embracing yellow wakefulness,
And the two petals of a white loss.

Remembering Rilke’s Expanse.
Some flightless bird suspended in the air.

Remembering Rilke's Love.
An art of the body, the body of an art,
An evident immensity of soft moonlit figurines,
An evading grief of bleeding letters,
And a slight whisper of the morphing strand.