after T.S. Eliot
Forgotten, the first tunnel
I slipped through
near midnight of that flowering,
the underside of leaves
a map of mildew.
What did I know of the rose
except a bright bud unfolding?
Pricked my thumb on a thorn.
Every tunnel I’ve passed through,
every rose I’ve cupped in my hand
to inhale the hour’s sweetness,
has brought me here
to this dwelling place.
Let me say it right.
The first tunnel I slipped through
was a climbing rose,
or was it the fire?
I remember now, a smokeless
flame, barely incandescent,
that one small lick of desire.