Beneath the rose nothing
is repeated. Mouths and eyes and ears are stitched
shut surgically and what has been
mounted on the doorway never wilts, never droops;
needles, like diamonds, last forever
and their stitches are like steel.
What is said here,
stays here. Beneath the rose everything
is silent. Marble halls lined with framed
charters see no evil
hear no evil
speak no evil.
Conveniently silenced. Irony is the water
for the rose.
Powdered wigs and
dusty quills are useless now.
Beneath the rose, people are struck out with black markers
and red stamps.
Big Brother
has nothing on us.
