Where is there for this inside
an outside? On what kind of ache
do we lay such linen?
What heaven’s reflected in this,
in the inland lake
of these open roses,
so insouciant: see
how at liberty and loose they are,
as if no trembling hand
could ever spill them.
They can hardly contain
themselves; many of them
are gorged and overflow
from their interior
into the days that ever more
fully close over till the whole summer
becomes a room, a room within a dream.