by annmarieelliott

i imagined my house white
in color and feel as the ocean:
perfumed air and the face of spring
looking towards you with jollity
as you ask, with your dry lips parting,
“where has the thieves’ cant gone,
and why does Shahryar’s pardon
seem like damnation?” with love
i smiled and realized that the house
was dark, and the cat had died,
and the torrents of Behr blue paint
raining down the walls won’t work
to keep the uncertainty away. tomorrow
maybe the sun will strike a different chord.

6 October 2009