WEBVTT

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This is a poem about
roses, "Hypothesis/Hymn."

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The sun will rise tomorrow.

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I write this
sentence in the light

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from the sun that rose today.

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We do not know it.

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What we need, rose, sun, the sun
that rose, the sun that rises,

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the rose that rises and unfolds
its budded sleep in light.

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O Rose that is an eye.

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We do not know it.

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To imagine the world is to
touch the world with itself.

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Rose, rose, and
other faulty claims.

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I wrote this poem today.

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I'm writing over
many days, this poem.

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How many I forgotten, days.

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The sun, rose on each
day, and each day

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is the same page I'm writing.

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What is the news?

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Cherry blossoms in the capital,
poppies in Afghanistan,

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synthetic absinthe
in the corner bar,

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piracy, the spicy isles,
oil in the water jug.

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Cortez climbs the temple steps.

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He doesn't breathe hard,
he has been dead so long.

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Peacock, feather
on the ground, O,

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feather whose brilliance is
marked by its luminescent eye.

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Ideas about things, I
confess I have them.

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Hundred-eyed ideas, they
keep watch on themselves.

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Sleepless thoughts,
the gods abandoned.

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The wild rose empty
themselves into the idea

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of the eye, my idea of myself.

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This common monster with
its head in its own mouth,

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asking for help.

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It cannot utter
help someone words.

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This common silence,
the monster's hands

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reach into daily, nightly,
to pull its own head out,

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its own head's hole, to
pull it out and offer it

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to one you love.

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No bed of roses, but
a rose and tucked

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inside the rose, the sun.

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It didn't rise, it rose.

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The sun, it rose.

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And it left no promise,
but this petal, this scent.

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