42

The cumulus is like an anvil.
In the tangle
Of the garden of our earth
Grows a rose and
Livid a rose beaten red and
Blood does no
Colour to it and its thorn,
But the earth
Is black and the thorn red
And the stem is
A dull red glow of forges
And the bloom
A dark white of last evenings
That aches like
Cold and beats like lovesick
On the brain
—It was pulled from the fire
Too soon, as were
We—And sleeps and speaks:

A dark an
                  vi
                  ge
                       l spreads its wings.