There’s a way to pack the chandelier
that no longer fits in with the rest
of your furniture’s bleak and blear.
Each crystal dangled undressed
except for its prisms, twisted on wires
of twilight metal. Use tissue paper.
No. Toss them in a glass box, amplifier
of their song. Unsayable stars, capable
of anything, ask them about the basement.
They will tell you how broodiness
and longing can build a monument
to the wrought scrollwork of sadness,
how once taut links will ease to the floor,
relaxed. Inside each teardrop, the salt of furor.