H. D.

YOU are clear,

O rose, cut in rock.

I could scrape the color

from the petals,

like spilt dye from a rock.

If I could break you

I could break a tree.

If I could stir

I could break a tree,

I could break you.

O wind, rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat,

slit it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop

through this thick air;

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears,

and rounds grapes.

Cut the heat:

plough through it,

turning it on either side

of your path.