Poetry ... ... a place for the genuine, Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise - Marianne Moore

nor are there any
ivory
tusks like those two horns which when a tiger
coughs, are lowered fiercely
and convert the fur
to harmless rubbish.

ROSEMARY
Beauty and Beauty’s son and rosemary — Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly — born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company,
braids a garland of festivity.
Not always rosemary — since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently.
With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath,
its flowers — white originally — turned blue. The herb of memory,
imitating the blue robe of Mary,
is not too legendary
to flower both as symbol and as pungency.
Springing from stones beside the sea,
the height of Christ when thirty-three — it feeds on dew and to the bee
“hath a dumb language”; is in reality
a kind of Christmas-tree.

I am governed by the pull of the sentence as the pull of fabric is governed by gravity.