A less resentful gaze at the little black umbrella
over the baby’s carriage, that’ll do. The one behind the fountain
driven dry. A little adolescent
mustache never hurt, either. Everyone says this. It’s true.
That is incorrect. This is clearly painful. I’d rather we forget this part.
Back at the showers we avoid eye contact,
mere apprentices. The tutors come along,
take off their shirts, wag their hairs,
and all-too-soon drive their little green motorcycles home.
And then the children dance,
driven wild by their papas’ skirts.
What is intoxication, after all?
—The Gallery of Desire (having lost it all and then wondering what it was like)
