Half of them
cough, the one
with the limp wittily
grunts towards me
you remind me of
Theda Bara, a distant
relative I blush be
cause it’s true.
Already
his eyes are
full of no.
Smoke boils up from the
table, the scraped faces
freeze on me until I
wish I hadn’t come
Suddenly this glass voice
clangs and what do you
think of adultery? Now
it is not easy to be
clever under his
fluorescent glare but
I look right back and
ask how that’s
relevant. He doesn’t
like that at all
scratches an ear and wants
to know if Tottel’s 3rd
cousin by a later
marriage of course
is significant in 19th
century bibliography and
my God he is serious I
sweat inside my specially
lengthened drab gray suit
beginning to think of
oceans, imagining that
walls could drift
out slowly, even
the floor slide away.
Not able to suppose
just then why Marvell
didn’t write the
same poems that Donne
did briefly in 72
seconds, or where
Fulke Greville was
while Spenser was
having his fire
The two faces I thought
I knew keep dissolving.
Their eyes float to
shelves where words
live predictably
Are you certain of
those dates a British
accent whines thru
teeth that have never
lived outside New
York City. A stranger
bends into his shoes
as if the laces were
nastily disappointing
We know your record
the Milton man spits
thru a belch but you
understand the require
ments, couldn’t you
just have a baby?
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