There is a way of looking at the world,
without watching the back of your own head,
or the inside of your eyes. Like fingers,
the surface of the earth is whorled and inked,
its contours once shaded red with empire,
with tradition that lingers, though its day
is done and the principles that linked us
are mere kindling for a pyre. At the edge,
there is blank space, where there may be dragons
and heroes who make no fuss. You suppose
it is unlikely and so hedge your bets
against the time of paragons reborn.
Weep for the emblem of the rose: Regrets
are to history as aphids to the thorn.
