Vincent Clay

Sunday Afternoon

Brought tired after raised glass of someone else’s second favourite champagne

I pass through front door of where I rent

close my eyes to the dust

and make coffee.

 

I go upstairs and open a book, but look instead

at orchids I was invited to take from a wedding one month ago,

and see they have lost their blood-and-lilac curdled hearts, fading down past saffron,

while faint green seeps from base of stamen

across each blank white face.

 

These bitter sounds dripping into beauty chanced to me

are in every way horror:

I feel priced out of generosity.