Put my clothes in the wash to erase the
colorless stains you find so imperfect,
but I see only in splendors of golds
and greens and reds that drip till the ink
runs down into a blur of that cyclical
motion I cannot tear myself away
from even if my begonias wither
into a mulch you would appreciate
despite the enduring summer dusting.

Was it not you who said I was living
in a dream world when you are the one who
thinks perfection is a lovely notion?