Is a Rose
O’Keefe’s
opens in the troposphere, blooms like smoke. Echo to galaxies it most resembles, inviting the eye with no flicker of doubt or flagrant hue. Only the lone spiral of everywhere. Only the wordless cue set loose on the universe. Poor you at the center. Poor you adrift—here, here, here, here. No way to spy from a distance.
Shakespeare’s
AKA: Thirty-leaf; aphid estate; attribute of saints; emblem of battles and crowns; quasi-fictitious wartime riveter; Peace.
Feynman’s
unfurls inward, outward, n-ward, along the adding-to-not-subtracting tributaries of implicit awe. Formal, familial, cellular, subatomic. Consistent with extraordinary fact and raw meandering. Marvelous through and through; as in between as fractal leafings-out. Dispassionate, bereft of counterparts. Inciting verve alone and in abundance.
Piaf’s
reigns adjectival, lilting, bent on the chambered heart and celluloid likenesses. Maybe a dance—measured yet bold, styled yet timeless. Maybe a question, a destination. Remade, redolent, redux and revived: the unbeatable, whirling allure. Mon fleur, qui bat?
