Domestic Mysticism:
A small frog in the sink
interrupts my grandmother’s chard-rinsing
while outside, rain falls in a cement birdbath.
I am there, here, but where.
Domestic Mysticism:
We go by
second or third names,
nicknames, name games,
and no one can know
to speak our first
which is a face
not a sound.
Domestic Mysticism:
I cannot agree on anything
abstract. But reeds at the edge
of an estuary, the saltwater filtered into standing
up to wind, to day
in a painting of Cape Cod, I imagined I could enter,
drown beneath.
Domestic Mysticism:
Fade of burgundy print
patterns a soft sheet.
Everything seems
and seems to belong,
as a color belongs to its fabric,
silver to a spoon,
or, I have been here.
Also, the limit to description,
definition, inscribes itself
in a pattern which can only describe
its repetition, petition
for asymmetry, repletion.
Domestic Mysticism:
Silk button in a drawer, silk flower
sewn onto some mistake
righted.