a skinny shaft of the palest bone tint
through last night’s negligent drapes –
a small blue painting amidst grayer shapes
near kitchen’s shadow-tagged mint.
Further, a shelf of smooth red-bound books…
then a postcard, mottled as army fatigues
propped up against what almost looks
like a model of the diver from 20,000 leagues
under the sea [in truth a tall pepper mill]
and all, so many invocations seem
to the goddess of our house halfway up the hill
our calm, unobtrusive dream within a dream.




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