She could collect them in jelly jars, perhaps,
these bruised mulberry mornings, sheets sacheted
in autoeroticism. She�d sail in on the ghost
of the Isere & deliver the glasses as bribes

to boys of Manhattan mornings waving sheets sacheted
with yesterday's news. Bottle-bottom spectacles,
she crafts a dozen pair, delivers the glasses as bribes
to near-sighted proprietors of the Maharajah.

Yesterday's news, a bottomed-out spectacle,
she lost big in pork bellies & barters for a bowl
of curry. Warmed, she fucks the Maharajah
before setting off for the diner. Eggs white with runny yolk,

strips of pink & white pork bellies in a big bowl �
ahhh, she�s insatiable & he knows it, too.
In their booth at the diner, he writes a running joke
for his lost baby, that she waste not, want not.

Ahhh, he's insatiable & she knows it, too,
days of autoeroticism, flailing out the holy ghost.
All those lost babies, may they waste not, want not
when she could collect them in jelly jars, perhaps.