Here Are Roses

There is a sun in every head-

Always at zenith; returned to,

Anyone as if on sand

(Forget the dark) may lie, may loosen...

Do not say the glow through summer

Linden is dim, or of river-stone

A green theatrical light, it blackens.

But flesh clouds thicker the clouded suns.

Riding my red horse in the tented

Carousel, I catch the rings;

Sipping at sidewalk table a white gin

And juices, I jeer at my good luck.

There is a keeper of that sun

In every head-at my turning

He teaches that the scars and brambles

Are tricks of dark-and here are roses.