who does not exist & who is lying on a bed
whose frame is a diorama of swans
advertising their monogamy. Whose robe
would be dangerously sheer if he
or his ass existed. Who is lousy with pearls
& dancing. Whose style would put to shame
the most libidinous of courting birds.
Who by the candelabra’s orange light
is seductive as meringue & pliable as metaphor.
Who maps according to its johns the city
that does exist beyond the window
of the room he lives his made-up days inside.
O Bobby, the street is a rat’s nest of contingency
& neon & steam from the subway grates.
A storm is blousing in from the mad Atlantic
& pitching the world to its own diagonals,
& Bobby, this is the least of our concerns:
the future is as futures often are
just history we haven’t memorised
& I cannot say if you survived it.
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