Elbow in elbow, treasure in deskwell,
object in perfect embrace of your subject,
Beloved. You fasten tumbled sheets, pell mell
with dailiness, ordering the old wrecked
destiny of hearts. The stubborn staple
bites with prongs; undressed corners join one fold
as if pretense alone can hold them stable. Your clasp stays firm, or slips off, as you’re told.
My paragon, remain. You may unbend
your shape, an L or V, to fish lost rings
from drains, pry out a crumb inbetween keys.
But stripes and gaudy colors make an end
of mere display–their hard enamel clings
like taint. Repeat pure elegance. Fix me.