The secret artist havocs into plain view,
pillowing his head on virgin laps,
impatient for nightfall. How many pears
can one man decently eat? Others ate
until they vomited and seemed none
the worse for it.
The girl is either lazy or languid,
proximity drowns and blurs and
calls for citation. Her hands resettle
one beside the other and even a
casual observer will reach a puritan
conclusion.
A quartering moon
does double-duty as lovers’ alibi.
Buttons like pig’s-eyes
wink beside the bee-swarmed cot.
The matron brushes the khaki
with a glove not meant for pleasure.
It is considered gauche to read the titles first.
Common-sense is who you want her to be,
now, pleasantly, at your disposal.