like horse-dumplings on the highway.
like the ever-returning fly-blanket on a picnic.
like the dame’s fur-coat in the Opera.
like axolotls festering at the rise of darkness.
like a porcelain hone hanging from the wall.
It’s a modest virtue,
as the laureate wiseman living in poverty.
as the shoal stirrs at the snap of the reptiles.
as laughter jetting through the teeth-fence.
Yet it’s light,
as the antelope looking down from the ledge.
At the end it’s tranquil,
as the alabaster jar broken for the funeral.
Joy is incomprehensible.
(I was grinning all day long:
you said, I am beautiful.
When someone else says that,
I just snarl in silence.)