A fan of deli roses meets tile,

reorients in time: a viable

day bed, after the drop-leaf descended,

on which the dinette’s ponds of filth prevail

until glass is broken, and respite loosed

our song, prisoned under harmful ore and

yet paring unique agony with strained

genericism. While our deciding 

that a meal, say, or argument remain 

incomplete brought that argument or meal

to its close, your voidance let your biding

remittance thrive. The fiddle-leaf fig roosts

in your lees; all else I’m left’s a diamond,

quick to lose the value it pretended.