The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge cuts without cutting meets—nothing—renews itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends—
But if it ends the start is begun so that to engage roses becomes a geometry—
Sharper, neater, more cutting figured in majolica— the broken plate glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses—
The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end—of roses
It is at the edge of the petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat laboredness—fragile plucked, moist, half-raised cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal’s edge and the
From the petal’s edge a line starts that being of steel infinitely fine, infinitely rigid penetrates the Milky Way without contact—lifting from it—neither hanging nor pushing—
The fragility of the flower unbruised penetrates space