In the upper room of a house roofed
with terracotta tile, two figures
move into an embrace. They fling
the sheet from the bed, which unfurls
over the window sill to spill across
a courtyard in which a copper samovar
presides, next to a plate of pomegranates.
Someone sinks into a velvet-upolstered
armchair, grateful for tea. The scrolled
metal arms of the chandelier can only predict
one kind of weather though there is, of course,
always the opposite of any condition. And so
then clouds could gather in your cup.
The moon could crack like an egg against
the rim of the world. The sea could slip
through the keyhole a child once fit his whole
arm into. But the bees, the bees still make
their perfect rooms of gold and honey.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
