This is a poem about roses, "Hypothesis/Hymn."
The sun will rise tomorrow.
I write this sentence in the light
from the sun that rose today.
We do not know it.
What we need, rose, sun, the sun that rose, the sun that rises,
the rose that rises and unfolds its budded sleep in light.
O Rose that is an eye.
We do not know it.
To imagine the world is to touch the world with itself.
Rose, rose, and other faulty claims.
I wrote this poem today.
I'm writing over many days, this poem.
How many I forgotten, days.
The sun, rose on each day, and each day
is the same page I'm writing.
What is the news?
Cherry blossoms in the capital, poppies in Afghanistan,
synthetic absinthe in the corner bar,
piracy, the spicy isles, oil in the water jug.
Cortez climbs the temple steps.
He doesn't breathe hard, he has been dead so long.
Peacock, feather on the ground, O,
feather whose brilliance is marked by its luminescent eye.
Ideas about things, I confess I have them.
Hundred-eyed ideas, they keep watch on themselves.
Sleepless thoughts, the gods abandoned.
The wild rose empty themselves into the idea
of the eye, my idea of myself.
This common monster with its head in its own mouth,
asking for help.
It cannot utter help someone words.
This common silence, the monster's hands
reach into daily, nightly, to pull its own head out,
its own head's hole, to pull it out and offer it
to one you love.
No bed of roses, but a rose and tucked
inside the rose, the sun.
It didn't rise, it rose.
The sun, it rose.
And it left no promise, but this petal, this scent.