“Rose, oh pure contradiction, desire
to be no one’s sleep under so many lids.”
— R.M. Rilke (epitaph, Raron, 1926)

The window holds the lake—a grey ellipse,
Geneva flat and cold below the pane.
My hand, wrapped tight in linen, smells of spirits—
iodine, and under it, the autumn rain
that silvered Muzot’s garden wall,
the pear pressed flat against the gate,
and last, the frosted rose, its small
translucent hips, the color of a faience plate—
I cut the stems at eight, the light was sparse,
the Valais folding into dark, between
the Bella Tolla and the evening stars—
one felt the center hold. But now, dear Baladine,
the night falls past my window’s architrave;
the rose required a hand; the hand a grave.