Like a victor stripping off his mundial glory,
dropping his poker-face and slouching
from his bronze posture for a spell of
pirate’s sprawl. A breathless room of harem-
cushions and dope, and the most beautiful laughter
that money could buy.
The sun burst its pantaloons and slid tyburnean
down the burning sky, settling into the gray sea
to float awhile, as gulls circled and lorded their
alarm.
The bay was meant for bathing by moonlight,
and Harlequin led his train like a merciless tutor,
first this step and then that, the crystal flowing into
sand, the mirrors misting into the sockets of the
performers’ eyes, the most beautiful eyes
that money could buy.