Slow-dripped and poignant,

the leotard animals

in their dusty lace, reverberate

like the slow trickle of grease.


Gilded flowers are not agile.

They are glossy and precise

like the photographic luster

of wet whale skin at night.


She is not as well.

She is bold,

but abrasive, brassy, smoked feathers

on sticky wallpaper.

In a contemptuous row,

bloating like blisters,

a stippling of salt holding keenly to the weight.


Oh, rusty motor,

the leggy arsenal spectacle,

hold on to our umbrellas.

Preserve our dented credentials.