Portended: the weak-kneed amongst us—we savage our lips—we stage a speech—we pledge:
“Trivial in nature: the art of our pursuit
To happiness, to God, to after-thoughts”
So sorry you learned?
I, a harlot’s mouth—of shrewd—as blue of hue: The hours come pre-wasted—never used
Large scale-models of her eyes, weeping fake-oceans of actions—never moving
From seat’s back: her station, we had nations before us, clasped—fingers snapped, bent low,
Like sticks under shoe, under a god we knew: the better gods of our bitter natures—with glue,
For nothing, the day left of sweet sorrows, too long, in the sun—a proper change, all our worries,
Soon, left to waste.