To Redouté

        To true roses uplifted on the bilious tide of evening
	And morning-glories dotting the crescent day
	The oval shape responds:
	My first is a haunting face
	In the hanging-down hair.
	My second is water:
	I am a sieve.
	 
        My only new thing:
	The penalty of light forever
	Over the heads of those who were there
	And back into the night, the cough of the finishing petal.
	 
        Once approved the magenta must continue
	But the bark island sees
	Into the light:
	It grieves for what it gives:
	Tears that streak the dusty firmament.