Spring up—sway forward—
follow the quickest one,
aye, though you leave the trail
and drop exhausted at our feet.
GARDEN
I
You are clear
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petals
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree—
I could break you.