We collapse in the entry way and there find
a bouquet of basil, explosions of Black-eyed Susans. The landlord
has been here. If he only knew
the carnage upstairs--the full, open
boxes; the lilies wilted like old paper,
pressed against the microwave.
We sling the flowers atop the refrigerator
and I touch each blossom in turn.
"Such perfect foxglove," I say.
"And this hydrangea. So blue."
The basil is an island in the shining sink,
and you have set yourself on the floor
where someday the sofa
will go.
photograph by flickr user petr19710
