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?