My husband's out-of-town so I set
Our house on fire. Champagne
And eggs, asparagus for breakfast.
Water for lunch. I eat dinner early
In the late afternoon while the wind
Disorganizes leaves, leaving me
To clean them up. I think that the
Imagination's guided by logic—
A hand that's used to translating
Images of rain to snow. Error-filled,
The night destroys the details of
Poems—the pearls worn by Beethoven
In secret, the rocks H.D. mistook
For seaweed as she walked
In exaltation toward the beach. Is it
Possible to sing the imagination
Into being? And is it possible for us
To valorize autumn by cloaking in
Difficult language the paths of stars?
Geraniums, they make entr'actes
Out of air as I walk past them.
Always these goddamn leaves
And acorns shat on our house by
The goddamn oak. One of us will fail
The other, will plagiarize language
From the other, that's certain.
Acorns are beautiful only to those
Who've never had to clean them up.