The sommelier pours hock into the L’Angelus
while children restack Legos into tombs.
A journeyman barrista sports a new tattoo --
the steam hits skins of scalded milk. The rooms
here tingle with WiFi and heirloom jewelry.
The ceiling is a trompe l'oeil of rout.
The floors are stainless steel on stilts, the three
walls without views are sandwiches of doubt-
proof R15. Between the artful sponge-remarque-
on-plaster and displays of cashier’s checks,
it’s easy to miss windows looking out on stark
white rage, behind which veil, a raven pecks
the body of its mate, a black bear eats its young,
a lynx chews off its leg. All miracles
without the transubstantiation. Here among
the rank converted, housemaid Vera culls
the canapés and proffers trays of fresh Bee decks.
The Dummy wanders over, whiskey-propped
to see his Ten harrumphed, a royal card wrecks
Daddy’s rubber. Weaveresque “Have IQ’s dropped
so sharply?” dribbles from the East. Someone’s been wise
about the latter days of Rome, someone has left
the door ajar. What’s left of all that’s warm defies
the Second Law and, pulling in its cleft
and tummy, leaves the realm of univision,
squeezes, soundless, through the bright incision.