at some fish-and-goose soirée) “…but I bet
your alabaster skin could sway a priest
into bed—though it breaks down, all of it,
eventually: this punch, this pickled beef,
that loud mongrel on the rug by the door
ripping the tassels with his teeth.” She winced
then turned to retrieve her hat from the floor—
and as she ascended the steps, I glimpsed
beneath her twirling dress a galaxy
spiraling about a white core. My heart
kept time with the thumping on the ceiling
after that—some drunk promoting his art
by fucking blindly in the dark, without
any Elizabethan caveats.

Poetry will suffice. There is nothing
more oddly cogent than a formal verse
(other than silence, which has more beauty).

When your friends have damned your iniquities
to hell, and turned their backs to you in turn,
poetry will suffice. There is nothing

like a villanelle to assuage pity
(or bare your rage, if that’s what you prefer,
other than silence). Which has more beauty

of the two: a dandy agonizing
over a dead word– or: a woman’s curves?
Poetry will suffice. There is nothing

in the known universe or the third ring
that has greater efficacy to burn
(other than silence, which has more beauty).

When loneliness makes the uneasy peace
a guilty man might steadily endure,
poetry will suffice. There is nothing,
other than silence, which has more beauty.