One More for the Road

The imperfect is our paradise
Note that, in this bitterness, delight
Since the imperfect is so hot in us
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds

—Wallace Stevens, The Poems of Our Climate

Nothing more here
Flowers in a bowl
Snow outside the window
You here, in the hall
Searching for the ceiling

Nothing more here
Clean and snowy air
White flowers
Nothing more
Wheeling out to greet them:
One more for the road? One more for the road?

Still, one could want a little more
Still, one could need a little more
Still, one could want a little more
Still, one could need so much more

Nothing more here
Newly fallen snow
A simple bowl of flowers
Perfectly composed

Flawed words
Stubborn sounds
Searching for the ceiling
One more for the road?
One more?