Something of how the homing bee at dusk
seems to inquire, perplexed, how there can be
No flowers here, not even withered stalks of flowers,
Conjures a garden where no garden is
and trellises too frail almost to bear
the memory of a rose, much less a rose.
Great oaks, more monumentally great oaks now
than ever when the living rose are new,
Cast shade that is the more completely shade
upon a house of broken eaves.
No samask any more prevents the moon,
But it unravels, peeling from a wall,
Red roses within roses within roses.