pretty lace, and somber-delicate,
the prideful work of uninspired hands,
count the death of chronos’ teaching
with orders of $7 coffees.
and yet, i find still,
your greasy face, your smug look, your flaunting dowry,
and i tremble, weakened by a moment’s alacrity,
that i should have ever fawned for sicker milks-
how direly i want to rise up and be
the lotus from mud, or at least moss from tree,
and how pertinently your face doth gaze through,
my myopic transfixion, my death liquours-
yours, i can only imagine,
is the noonday walk down flowering oaken street-
for cigarettes and a pregnancy test.