is to press this unknown flower between our hearts
until we drown in the crushed fragrance that rises
from the fissure between yearning and delight,
the undulating hairline fault in the diamond,
a path for us who are made of light, leading
out of form and perfection, into namelessness.
It may be a rose, this flower, or it may be God.
But I will never know the way back to the garden
where I stole it for you, like fire.