Stone basin, stone breath, stone bric-a-brac,
but finally a gown
of ambiguity, shimmering and more fitting
than a shift of drear reason,
a Come in, come in. We’re having a party.
There’s dancing; there’s petting
in the bedroom to the right. Inevitable light
in the morning. Who will refuse enthrallment?
To be free, Louise says, is to be undecided.
Come and kiss the linen scarf where it drapes
the dresser’s grain.
See how well it holds what it’s been given?
See the empty stems of what were roses
in the once-ago garden?
The mansion and mausoleum lake
where the boat turned under?
Dollish and dressed in pretense, Louise turns
to the window: in one eye, she sees fir trees
circling a suspicious white house,
a peevish pink shed; in the other, a helicopter
distinguishing itself from five geese flying in form.
O the crippled government of love, love, love.
Numb now, why she’s just a young thing,
a fillip of the ghostly habit of on and on.
She can barely ride a bike but tomorrow she’ll have reason
to remark, The peppercorns have bled the cheese brown.
And across the table, another will note,
The five-fluid-ounce flask has gone missing.