Perspective lines
Toward vanishing points arched
Causing a swell in that symphony hall
Where I saw a rose
Then roses exploding, the hall a great vase
The child at its hub had blown the roof off
As we stared, things fell or flew of exalted
Angels, theologians say
Do not learn incrementally
What we would call disciplines
Angels might call epiphanies
Did the child know, in that way, the beauty
She poured out to the air it filled
A bow and strings most use for groping
In hope something slowly will open a bit
Little bit only here and there
