Security at Auction

The mirror left on the floor filled with apricots
was careless.  But careless is something I've been
recently.  I didn't want to open the book
the author had signed, crossed out his his name and
signed again in trench marks, like a bitten-into
peach.  Now say something philosophical.
And when we threw him out he clanged
like an old chandelier.  A greater smoker reduced to ashes.
Outside two swans clear their long throats.
It is remarkably short and over like the
first time making love for months.

Now I am writing this letter from a field of aster.
And the stems are understandably long.