The rose garden
is readied for the year.
Pruned, first buds appear
has withdrawn to his tower
for forty years, and misses it all.
Maybe that kept the apocalypse at bay
like Simon Stylites in his day.
Reciprocity moves to its own extremes of power.
If you hit me on the cheek
I’ll turn and smash your face in.
That’s where the world’s going, said von Clausewitz
on war. Hölderlin’s
at une fenêtre
saw Napoleon go by
on horse. That thug.
But my roses still bud.
The war in Afghanistan aims
to subject the Taliban to our will
but moves to its reciprocal extremes
killing the most or all by any means.
Soldiers object to being court-martialled
for killing children.
It must be accidental or collateral.
An unsteady hand with a tremor
directs the secateurs