The moonlit vase held
the passions of dead grandmothers
Just as the old
bureaus held brooches they once had worn
And as the old graves
held bones they once had worn.
The moonlit vase held
the passions of dead grandmothers
Just as steeple-headed
men circled pleas that we had mourned
And as the old graves
held the bones we had mourned.
The moonlit vase held
the passion but did not keep the passion in
It poured to the
hardwood like old wine once did
And it made funny
squares like old windows once did.
The moonlit vase held
the passion but did not keep the passion in
It spilt into the
kitchen just like the rose’s chopped stem
And it made a split
just like the rose’s chopped stem.