Imagine nothing belongs in the house but white daisies
catching the autumn light
on the dining room table:
This is the reason
we are in love, she says,
as she walks over to her favorite painting:
an aesthetic invitation
to go sailing
and have lunch near the water.
Imagine there is more here than art
taking shape from her desire:
there is a room full of birds
flying in circles
near the ceiling, a forest
where the echoes of a chain saw splinter
the kitchen’s perfunctory order.
Imagine she closes the door and draws water
for her evening bath. Her husband
goes out and returns
with cold milk, white eggs:
she thanks him, they kiss–
they watch their son read
about a train chugging up a mountain
loaded with fruit and bread.
Imagine, outside, their daughter builds
mud pies and talks to dogs and toads.
Imagine that soon, only moonlight
will find them,
only darkness will know