nD

canst thou reach in and cup that pure rose dwelling beneath my ribs?
in spite of antipathy to poesie anglaise

so in diversion from that hallowed tradition and with respect
to the ongoing ravel-shastokovich dialogue

let this then be as much a glittering thing that sparkles unexpectedly
from the void and then as easily transfigures (this poem, not THIS)

the rose that is ponted to by Jesus is trembling
some roses must grow upside down, and flower
(at least for a time) in the cool ground

your fingers are holding it