a hand that’s used to translating images of rain to snow

In the Dark Again
Sara Nicholson

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.


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