Labyrinth littered with abandoned cups,
no longer does a ring long hold a set
and even if it were to catch the sun
the light would be too sharp in flashy glass
of diamonds that may not really be.
The key is gone to the abalone music
box but will I wind to listen? That question
in every eye still glittering. For until
I answer Yes I can hear it, I will
be trapped in uneven aisles unfound
by the halfwit wind that brought me here
that will only take me away
when I have forgiven it
for all the things it cannot help but break.
And this tea tray of sweet Miss Quattlebaum,
toll-painted violets and roses
on black that is black as the hour
the wild man broke into her house
and put his hands around her rabbit neck.
All of these treasures were hers:
little box of flowered handkerchiefs,
initialed gift from a favorite Latin student.
She was fond of florals and her lettered organdy
is a garden but there is superstition afoot
and only those who hitch-hike on a full moon
will touch and buy her flowers with her name.