There is a gilded bulb
That lives in my heart,
And surrenders, as the desires that tend it,
A dark and venomous bloom.
   
 Mornings I wash with the peaking trill
Of violins, notes that dash              
And break                            
Like the lines that mrk the same stretch
I drive each day to work.

Its petals are suggestions.  
Words, like half- used spools of thread, or
An earring, uncoupled,              
Collected for years,
So I might, someday,      
Have the chance to say something
Truly beautiful.