Carol Vanderveer Hamilton

A REVELATION


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 shopping carts.
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.