A Wake Without Warning (for Gertrude Stein)


A rose is a rose is a rose is a
morning.
Skin as white as bone as dead as you.
I dreamed myself as dead as you.

It is February--
a wake when I thought
the grass as dead as you.

Asleep as flowers in their beds,
I dreamed of a dying day, it's colors
bled as you-- the sky
as dead as you
which is not so dead
when thought about
and less so when dreamed.

A rose is a mourning. Sky
as bare as blue as you.
I dreamed myself slid
into glass and
kept.
I dreamed you as summer wades
as shells left as crests met.
What is not an end? What is
not a rose?

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