A Yellow Rose
which
turns
the
wrist of storms
and the sleeping metals
of a
twilight,
fastened with no longer
bolt
than fragrance
around the gentle wires
of zero’s
eye,
to cups, that absence may
last
in the mind
more ringingly than bronze.
John Gibbens
An earlier version of this poem was published in Agenda, in the “Lauds” issue, Vol. 43, Nos. 2/3.
