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                                                                      Renato Rosaldo


Rose Poem


We live in ruthless rose repetition.
I wake from our bed having dreamed you
burst from gravity into gold butterfly flutter.

I lean from a window, you bend toward me
and smell the driest gray rose on a ledge
under the broken window, uprooted, unwilted.
                                                                         A red rose
measures our future quiet detonation, like the e of time,
unpronounced, one guffaw past panic.