The Ritual

My wife has placed some flowers
on the table and turned off the light. 
This is important because all
new impressions are legal
and notice will be given if notice
is overlooked. Thus 
            I organize my eyes to sweep
the vase, knowing there will be a quiz
on arrangements later.
I cling to the edge of the vase 
as though it were a vat
in which I was about to be boiled
alive. This is how I gain perspective.

Her eyes are twinkling. Properly I note
the daisy is organized to protrude,
bowing correctly, at me sliding in to the vat,

I am the vortex of worry,
because she will come to me
with her pair of inclusive scissors
wrenching words with a harness
for drawing horses through the dining room, 
which, I notice, smells like ochre,
      heavy like flowers
in a dream where I sweep mania
into the dust pan, furiously, cowering
to the whisper of bougainvillea.