In your house, a gilded glut of roses
Falls over everything, into the cracks.
Between the rug and sofa, one supposes,
Lies a strange kind of soil that feeds your lacks.
Out of this, the miseries, the facts
Of your unloved past run unchecked. They grow
And bloom, metamorphosed. You have a knack
For bonsai trees and teacups. Far below
Lurks a giant furnace where you show
Impurities who’s boss; pale colors there
Intensify; order is made. I know
You are in charge of every detail where
You sit and string your beads on the fine wired
Perceptions of those things you once desired.