Winter antelopes into erstwhile
   dogmas committed against an ivory
         cane, and three ducats of pilsner
can't buy me lust or you levitating
   with one hand on the other in arcs
         of unctuous radiator steam falling

all over itself like drunken blind luck
   or a dispossessed Carnegie.
         Don't get me wrong. Trains are

my optimal frame of deference,
   their unsung articles gallivanting
         the transvaal with brash gargoyles

in a grand quarter-sawn wish
   to make moguls of slush piles
         the old-fashioned way, by blowing

in their alabaster nostrils. And reeking
   of time, I am here to report that
         the gossamer intersection of infinite

space and your sizzling flywheel
   has fibrillized a cantaloupe so far out
         of season only a dissociative lemur

would admit to not seeing the humor
   in it. Were this not the case, dear
         other, would I have told you?