Sonnet for a Sad Dream

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.