I walk through our home in mind
to make a cup of coffee.
Greeting leaves in the picture window,
I seem slow to grind the beans.

A crystal dish—the things I love—
the rooms gleam white and clean.
Our desk is neat between
your bills, my calendar and pen,

the floor plan gauzed beyond a screen.
Be tidying when I come, dust me off—
another thing. I bring to you
The Late Romances, the walls suffuse in cream.

Our room, your face, the porcelain,
light unbuttons the dream.
I itch my eyes open to fix
on minnows squirting downstream.

Sandra Marchetti
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