Extra Virgin

When they see a triangle atop a square they don’t see a house.

Even the saint is quietly desperate. I have my ear to the peninsula.

This much is never expected. Not a chance of ugliness

not now but later on they will forget their names and the month will be wet.

The bay of laurels knows little of the open ocean south of here.

but knows French polish will save Victoria.

Raises single malt to the decade. Tours immensely. The room

was once an engagement party. The bed has discoloured from trouble.

Even the yellowtails are puzzled.

In another poem the ottoman is a decomposing tree.

Paranoia is ferreted from the dresser, footstool, and folder of nursery rhymes.

The open ocean south of here knows little of the bay of laurels

but can tie a knot faster than you can imagine it. It’s already done.

The poem, of course, is extra virgin, piquant, and well.

Yellowtailing for the decade. I saw the house twitch

on the rocks then cushioned by its glass frame.