Of the roses nothing wished to say in abundance not my story taken by way of the old drove roads i have been alone since middle england and truth telling on me – so many – much – lies beneath the oneiric surface –

the white of an unbleached rose flows from crimson red and back again but what of it – if nothing? I’m no stranger to unfamiliar eyes – I’ve been living at the edges of earth for what might seem centuries

(the world is neither up nor down but other) but if somewhere beyond the accepted line of place / time – an amorphous flower is beckoning – there once was a golden sign – abstract unstalked unproper

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