In the Dark Again

My husband's out-of-town so I set Our house on fire. Champagne And eggs, asparagus for breakfast. Water for lunch. I eat dinner early In the late afternoon while the wind Disorganizes leaves, leaving me To clean them up. I think that the Imagination's guided by logic— A hand that's used to translating Images of rain to snow. Error-filled, The night destroys the details of Poems—the pearls worn by Beethoven In secret, the rocks H.D. mistook For seaweed as she walked In exaltation toward the beach. Is it Possible to sing the imagination Into being? And is it possible for us To valorize autumn by cloaking in Difficult language the paths of stars? Geraniums, they make entr'actes Out of air as I walk past them. Always these goddamn leaves And acorns shat on our house by The goddamn oak. One of us will fail The other, will plagiarize language From the other, that's certain. Acorns are beautiful only to those Who've never had to clean them up.