The first time I saw Honesty
the old lady from the first floor
brought us down a bunch.
Pale, opalescent disks, like acoustic membranes,
they rattled dryly as you put them in a vase,
in our subterranean flat.
How clean their lines and branches,
like a Zen poem in their aporetic
disorder order.
We kept them for years, but gradually
they got smashed up after several moves,
we went through turmoil too, until
one day you threw them out.