Poorly matched the world and she
or so her best self would say (knowing her well
and making rare appearances.) But kingside she sits to post her fee
to lumber locks and fucks the jocks. And the malodorous cell

kept her solid for a while. The day came when she planted her feet
elsewhere. With the suggestion of limitation-she drunk it all down
and pushed and pushed her way to the source of the dinner bell-in her seat
she asked: Who are you and what is this we are eating? What gown

has draped this crapshoot? But it was winter and then summer
before she got an answer. Now it was too late for her hanky to drop
onto the centennial and nobody took her seriously. The drummer
drums a march to the wicked world's beating and we stop

the poem from the real dream that stood underneath her-what she drank
with what she ate. Awfulness only lasts a while, light to green, everything
melts to the deep sea. After dinner she thanked her host-lank
and benevolent for the kind creepiness and social visiting.

Tomorrow the directory says to take up more rooms, more loves,

no matter how unorganic-for Saturn's last fires have kept her from the infirmary

and her bad seed has turned good. Saluting now the uncool doves

of St. Francis-of her childhood of the sanctimony of another family.

She holds all meetings in secrecy-this for the greatness of
chronoscopal times.
Decadent and unyielding, never impairing the strength of a victim's cry,
she smirched the walls of her house with patterns-gross animal outlines,
tulips, or the quick stumped fox who smiled and bleakly froze to blind her sky.