Today is displayed as a scene of a crime, each household
Had its own version--go straight ahead down this street,
Recessed between odd-count salt cellars and an oyster plate
Recipes of refugees, rendered one afternoon where we risked it.
Where, in the habit of a landscape painter, such aims to comfort,
By establishing a moonscape that leavened as you left, Eurydice
Where the paper is, begins to slide out. Curbside, she runs. Eurydice
The deepest failings of the race. Your ghostly picture of the household
Rebels in thought, and the jar of the waning November moon comforts
As it empties, through dense green cover of your window facing the street.
So we lived within the thunderheads and dried into a salt flower, a risk
So far from climbing. Not one peak. Hollowness stares up from the plate.
Imagine it beloved, through a fly-specked pane. A repast on unmatched plates
An alternative to parting is dismembering it all the wrong way, forcing Eurydice
To figure that anyone finagled her fate, her anger a nest of snakes is risking
An inquisitive look.
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