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From what bed or bank or shop
from what habit to adore, have you

placed a few just so in a vase and let go,

what air of finery
a simple gesture makes

though lines of rust run

over their mouthy curvature,
and they give up a snuff

of seed dusting a maple grain.

It is a pleasant picture, simple
as water lilies Monet set

down over years, war years.

His water lilies he might say
of lilies, of seeing

an amputee, say, on the roadside,

or hearing someone gassed cough up
some blood-spotted phlegm

into a kerchief he folds,

like a scrap of canvas, politely
back into his pocket.

Or was that his wife settling in,

her lungs busy mired under
the surface of her skin.

From what well or eye does one

slog forth a life. Is that my morning
tea steeping?