The Unuttered Poetry of Rose
Is there a consummation
lit by awe
reserved for me?
Oh, when will I go up –
up flames like steps of stone –
I who never told my banal yearnings no
to let the heat mount up?
I who am built low and squat
but now see lines that rise and soar –
who never knew I longed to be a pyre,
who never fanned my spirit’s fire?
A god, as it turns out,
is not a thing to grovel to.
You taller stand that he is tall
and if you kneel, it’s not to gain a stay of judgment.
Kneel for beauty! all your days
and sing, not that he spares but that he is.
Between the housing rows a flash of blue;
between my thoughts the spark of you.
I turn, but I’m too clumped, unstirred, ungainly still
If you stand near me, well, I don’t know where!
Gutted I am and starved, my engine cold, my fuel drained.
What is my fuel but this one, standing here?
My engine but love? Now it mounts up,
the unkilling conflagration, all my spoiling structures
turned to scaffolding of light,
my weeping to a universal score,
all for love of this one, standing here.
Now I go, and care not what I spend
of bodily strength or substance –
of time, that is my heartbeat measured out.
O lord of time!
Be my unsorrowing companion
that I may laugh with you.