You have sent me a postcard
                              of a pastel-washed house
                              alive somewhere along the Adriatic,
                              an electric meter (hung by a blue door)
                              electrocuting the romance of unchosen poverty
                                                                                      as the fact does
                              that someone painted windows
                              and used a razor blade to slice the panes clean
                              and then stopped,
                              someone who understood his yellows
                              and pinks and shades of rose
                              that are gnawed black at the foundation
                              by a dampness.

                              A plant grows potted.
                              Two chairs of straw and wood are placed
                                                                        to hold the middle
                              and to rise from the corner of the picture
                              so that, from where I look,
                              leaning against the wood of my own chair
                              and locked in the middle of America
                              they are doll furniture
                              upright on my desk par avion.

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