A Red We Hope Is Not Of Earth

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

But for quietude, cementing night
a homogeny of bells chime
in a place none arrive
or depart for the past
is the future.
By candlelight, revering
the motherless sun, you and I,
The painted,

cheek of time, in the culture
of our eyes, things
unresolvable and Zen. The circular
now obsolete, to complete
everyone else, for they are asleep,
our inheritance shuns
its offer of a bed.
Some pray to a praying
mantis, some pray
to an infinity.

Not yet begun.
With an incriminating sense of structure
you and I, from an empty cup,
we drink.
And though nothingness
is something,
in itself, we are,
no longer curbed by chords
of instance. Through conceiving
we are conceived.

And so it is then,
we conceive
the green, give birth to red
A red no more shallow.