Fall 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 4 Poetry |

Rose

She makes herself a rose by standing around in your mind, growing, She stands there on one leg and she says thorny things But every time the sun comes she straightens up and jumps up almost another foot A few more clear days and this rose will be through the roof Passersby in every direction will finally understand the secret Of a love that far outran the pace of even the wonders of modern horticulture. How many nights have you dreamt of such sweet cultivation? Evenings of evil love, lying with your arms around a vegetable Swept off her feet, yet upset lest you see A foot, like a root, fumbling down to real ground from between these human sheets.

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The Body

By Michael Benedikt

She makes herself a rose by standing around in your mind, growing, She stands there on one leg and she says thorny things But every time the sun comes she […]

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