The Claude Glass
We are in the farmhouse again.
I think we have just made love.
I can't quite be sure but I see that
my walls are dripping a kind of puce,
thick like honey. The clock on the wall
is as innocent as an insect performing its purview.
The cars zipping along the nearby highway
seem silly. We have been carting humble-sized
wheelbarrows full of desire
to the center of our kitchen table.
My husband is about to reach through the air
and penetrate the light to touch the circumference
of a pear. Art history books climb the walls in columns.
Poetry books tumble upon themselves
with their slack suspenders and messy wiglets.
The problems of the world exist in a single droplet of water
which forms and falls from the faucet,
glints in the daylight
and captures this whole scene like a concept.