She had such belongings to see--
The lace tablecloth that spread like
Powdered snow when swept;
The couch that smelled always of berries,
The plate that held a dancing maiden,
Forever frozen in mid-spin,
Although she too had seemed
To slouch a little over the years.
A cracked glass lamp
To look through to see
Things stitched in light,
Like the frozen grass in winter;
The hall rug that was first fire,
Then ice,
Then snakes, or spiders, or worms,
Anything that would put an end
To a careful boy's tread.
And we thought the chairs,
The tables, the books
Must all translate far beyond the
Prices we placed on them
And far beyond the words
Of men and women,
A far cry from some frozen
Interstice of time,
Full of wisdom that would
Move round the axle of the sky:
But they didn't--
And, in the end, we never knew
Which was harder,
The looking to buy
Or the turning away.
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