The gilt-edged windows at Versailles,
blue light reflecting off the tenor
saxophonist’s horn at Small’s in the Village,
its solo riding across the ceiling and twisting
through a doorway into a back kitchen, which upon
hearing, pauses the sous chef who gazes forever

into a plate of apples and curly endive,
the broken jaw of a boxer wired
like a contraption, a rust-colored striped

nautilus floating past a child’s diving mask
for the first time, their excited look
sharing with their fellow fifth-graders

in front of class in a report titled
What I Did This Summer, the quiet
of the room like prairie grass in summer,

the bullet that missed its target,
the harsh words held in the mouth,
my mother’s bright turquoise purse

full of ancient mysteries
and plastic-wrapped square candies
that arrived like one big yes

to the worlds’ no, the great mirror ball
at Cloud Gate in Chicago, today’s
cold spring day heavy with the scent

of magnolias, the brown walls of the old
convent delicate with the scent of longings
which I am ready to receive.