and nothing gained or a few chipped teapots gained
but none to win you out of hock.
A Rolex with diamond fittings whispers
sweet somethings from its enjambed arch.
You in the back of the shop
whimper common apologies circumspect in
entitlement which everyone (everyone) enjoys
though none according to worth.
A professor stared at her breasts and to her protest
said, But you’re not wearing a bra,
which is not much of an abuse as things go,
things, unsayable [Rilke]. Life is brutish, nasty
and short-haired as a cat’s accordion, a lyrical
magnificence of purring.
Smirk at the brutish and nasty, cower
before faith’s illogical residence,
its solitary and universal habitation in
every room, its golden thread winding north
of parade and pawn shop. The cats leap,
and we are also almost willing to follow
but for palace corruption, flocked wallpaper,
blue wigs and powdered insincerities
so basic to this toy and plaything
as the ticking Rolex pours tea into
saucers and we make love in flowered cups
and illogic is giddy with hope.