The Rose   a labyrinth, as if at its center, god would be there— but at the center, only rose, where rose came from, where rose grows— & us, inside of the lips & lips: the likenesses, the eyes, & the hair, we are born of, fed by, & marry with, only flesh itself, only its passage —out of where?        to where? Then god the mother said to Jim, in a dream, Never mind you, Jim, come rest again on the country porch of my knees.   Emily Dickinson’s famous formulation, that she knew poetry when she felt as though she was being trepanned (to amend her slightly), isn’t always reliable; sometimes I’ve found it’s an all-over chill or burning, and sometimes it’s my heart…