And, then, of course, there is this, what I’ve already noted once in the past month just may be the finest poem William Carlos Williams ever wrote:

The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air – The edge
cuts without cutting

meets – nothing – renews
itself in metal or porcelain – 

whither? It ends – 

But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry – 

Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica – 
the broken plate
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses – 

The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end – of roses

It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness – fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal's
edge and the

From the petal's edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact – lifting
from it – neither hanging
nor pushing – 

The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space