naked in
sheets as de
facto, in 
feathered 
hats. Having
posed for
Debonnier,
Aprile,
Toulouse
and the
Peerless
Bluebonnet,
with nothing
extra.
Peerless, I say. Mark it.

Having changed out again. Now in line
like geese for feeding.
Snorting and
bumping elbows in Picasso clown suits and
rouge. Peck snubs, disaffection and
seniority. Now all triangle hats, like
children’s sailing ships askew. Pointed felt
hats of clowns. I listen to women in
dormitories, pecking at no one’s sleeve.
What a misuse of power. Flesh and 
crimson teddies underneath and all that
lace and strap harness, girdles and
bloomers. Pantaloons, camisoles, bustiers.

They will not
eat, like
ghosts
dabbed in
powder, yet
excessive and 
distracting
like used
dolls in a 
pile. their
grim duty of
play with
angry
children,
wishing just
once to
gambol in
high clover
as their
mothers lied
to say. free of
the old men
and these
tormented
young devils.
But not to
breathe or
sleep. Not to
eat the sliver
of sweet beef
with mustard.

Oh God how I love them all yes that’s the place, a
shooting pain and as it fades that they never leave me, that wish too. A
prayer for mercy not understanding