commuting joy as easily
into depression as eruptive lusts.
While outwardly exhibiting a showof comme il faut and should’s and must’s,
it secretly entrusts itself to nothing –
as the stuffing of the life it putativelyseeks to spice and mold disperses
in the breeze like droplets
in a bad cold’s sneeze. It conjureseasy rhymes like these to cover
virulence – cheap handkerchiefs
all full of holes. It has no goals.And yet the delicacy it can lend
a face transgresses into grace.