Shunning
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
He could have broken off the rose, its pinks
And petals. Hands veered past. Perhaps he saw
The curvatures as sacred, or the winks
From waterdrops upon them, finding awe
Inside them, pink or not, both pink and clear
Their paradox. Perhaps they only gleamed
So briefly that that they didn’t quite adhere
Inside his veins. Their tiny glimmers streamed
Out smaller glints too small for stunning rays,
Yet not. Perhaps the rose was like a bell
That huddled beauty from his passive gaze,
That huddled beauty that he could not smell,
That huddled fragrance in a sacred curve.
Perhaps that thought explains his rite-like swerve.
~ Phillip Whidden