Djuna Barnes to herself

The intruder offered a bouquet–


          tenebrae of a half century, purloined by this


          blurred befriender of seclusions


which I snatched away.



                    I wasn’t—I just—



and then another enjambment,


          the indiscreet beloved relation


closed on its hinges



and thus the door slams just as a vase holds flowers.