Her name is Avant-Garde and she preaches

modernism like christian values, all stiff

upper lip and false bravado.

She lives for the fascinators,

in paperbacks, in laundromats, in hands

where the knots of sea-green veins and Venus’ girdle read

first frost, orca whales, candle wax, young love;

but is it still avant-garde when everyone

colors past the lines?

A/N: I guess you could say the phrasing is either incorrect… or “avant-garde.” ;)