Rosehips

mundane starry senses borrowed for paled eyes
recite wishes frozen or things circumscribed
whose supreme transparency flowers
in the reverse of
neither
weak grace turned to intoxication forever
nor
sentimentality sentenced to life everlasting

how can you be certain
that there must be
some hope

for the one pure ideal species indivisible
its words pushing the fallen laborers
washing blood handed down
generation after generation
words opening enigmatic repetitions
by fallen actors writing their own
instabilities connected little by little
to wise ways deposed like kings
queens princes baronesses true

some hopes
there must be
can you be certain
how many

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