At any cost, I am a lover of beautiful, useless things:
blanket lightning, cappuccino froth, the peach glow
of a Himalayan salt lamp. I love hearing church bells,
and even though I don’t attend, I want there to be
oversized stained-glass windows and long rows of quiet,
orderly pews. I want to dine by candlelight so I can watch
shadows pulsate on faces, to drink coffee from bone-white
teacups, to eat chocolates garnished with dried rose petals
and flaked salt, to hear crystal glasses sing when I slide
my finger along their rims. I want to fill a silver goblet
with red Chilean wine and let my face flush as I stare
at all the books on my shelf—the ones I’ve never read—
like I’m at the theater. I want to take a walk in the woods,
see those forlorn branches sagging heavy with wet snow,
to use words that sing like the wood thrush—diaphanous
and cacophony and sibilance. I want to be a weeping salt lamp.
Electric sparks beneath a blanket. The echoing hum of a glass.
A snowflake, a lover, a glowing and beautiful and useless thing.