I fell in love with the Siberian Iris
In the garden catalog,
Slender-stemmed, indigo shading to violet,

As in the plays, the body was decor,
Fit embellishment to a scene
Where chance's misrule seemed to have gone as planned:

It began with the deer, dead in the water 
Just off my parents’ dock, 
And then there was a procession of horses,

But in the stippled, rose velvet
Buds of staghorn sumac, in rust-
  Bright veins of briar,

In a nearly empty off-season cafe, just across
From the row of grand Saratoga hotels, I lost faith
In the elegance of the facades fronting Congress Park,