text: 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?