[Where art differs from the charmer,]

Where art differs from the charmer, 
the flattering sting dips Saturn in a red rose 
(laying on it)—gaudily chums trounce open 
the floodgates; purveyors’ persuasion has 
its own smoked hams; zany, unthwartable, 
palpably ripe nonsense—half-exposed breasts 
out of habit stuffed beyond the caress of the
wrong bull—[CUT]: Scintilla arrives in ripples, 
the redolent shift of a poem, like a memory,
like this poem turning its doggone woebegone
towards some sumptuous Halcyon, where 
chrysanthemums amuse a woman’s tiny baby, 
where mauve melodrama no longer irritates 
blarney tautology—let’s butcher the relics, 
let’s be bodies so soft that suede siphons out 
our flesh; let’s be like a pond of feathery lilies 
that unveils gold-colored filtered light outward 
as if created from glass—archetypes of puddled 
conflations—while bringing back labyrinthine 
reflections of moiety from the offing, built upon 
generation after generation, while our sempiternal 
lips of crystal tastes every projection, as swans 
vacate within your spirit, preventing your descent.