It’s no coincidence the hand soap near
the kitchen sink is scented milk and golden honey,
and porcelain cherubs sing from hymnals
above the toilet, and the shower refuses to
get too hot in the morning, and every
painting of fruits and flowers, cottages
and streams are accompanied by scripture.
In one room there are two gold frames,
side by side, twin paintings of hummingbirds
dancing among purple hollyhocks, and if
it weren’t for the one on the right slightly
crooked, I couldn’t tell you the difference.
In the bathroom there’s another, titled:
“Burgundy Irises with Foxgloves.”
The caption reads whatsoever things are pure.
I note the mini-blinds blocking sunlight
with washboard efficiency. I run my fingers
along crow’s feet in the drywall, along door frames.
I tap the window for the attention of a one-legged
cardinal who takes three steps before flight.
I read as daylight drains from the room,
the words softening on the page.
Evening Panoply 