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Carol V. Hamilton 
The bruised gardenia, drunk on its own sweetness,
lies in a bowl of water, listening
to the Ravel Concerto in G, slow movement,
as a patent-leather darkness covers
the french windows, and unexpectedly
a nail clipping of a moon appears.
It´s a revelation!
All this time we had believed in time,
in progress, the ballot box, vitamin supplements, and yet
there were black balloons flying at half-mast,
dreams of ineffable sadness,
bungy-jumpers bouncing off bridges
while playing the viola da gamba,
and those dark, disconsolate strangers
loitering on street corners
as if transfixed by desire and grief.
In the cerebellum´s folds that sweetness lingers
a time-bomb with white petals
to detonate this dull existence
with its sitcoms and fire escapes.
Let us decamp.
The landlord won´t pursue us.
Some irate neighbor will have the car towed.
Music will spill like water from a sluice
and we will discover the difference between
money and justice, daylight and knowledge,
suicide and hope.
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