As Sweet

It is analysis at last
that kills us. Our wish
to tear everything to pieces
in the mistaken belief
that we will understand
in parts that which has eluded us
whole. This last rose is not red, is not
even a rose. My eyes and nose
are joined with flower
in mutual dance of beauty,
neither is without the other.
My words are red, I am at one
with a slim silver electric box
and a cool autumn breeze on bare feet.