Everything here irks
possessed, all of it, of some
Country Home stupidity.
The plates are squared with idiot curves
at their corners, and every flat surface
clatters with uselessness.
Didn’t you know?
Fat people keep fat houses
The young girl that cleans is pretty
in that long and fuzzy
gentle kind of way. She
slips old pig to the dogs and
I’ve had enough of art, this art
that fits inside
a pretty vase or frame
inside a pretty house
where there is art
art stacked high and clamoring proud upon art
but never any food.
This young girl, she recalls you to me in that
she too plays this game of revealing
herself to men obliquely, betraying
from another room a glimpse of shoulder
On the far side of the Earth, another young girl
walks me through the aisles
points to a picture frame and says,
So it is.
So leave it.
As with the clothes, the bottles in decay,
the brown-dried blood, and other phylum of debris
Let it fester.
I hate a clean wound.