I’ll write about all the losses: socks, loose
coins fallen behind soft-cushioned sofas,
shoes looped around lamp posts, laces dangling
like nooses, keys, coins, wallets, names and numbers
passports and purses, pens, phones, glasses, gloves.
Moya Pacey's Black Tulips is filled with subtly observed poems pushed into the service of a dark, and darkly humorous, sensibility.