The Fauves are visiting. Come to redesign
the patio, they have upstaged the heart.
They have brought with them their own music
and solemn gondoliers. Madame Fauve,
with a twisted braid, is dancing. So is
the decadence in the wall. I applaud
the thoroughness of the measurers, but
cannot sanction their pervasiveness.
The Fauves must leave. Stat. I have an
appointment with deadness at 3 PM.
They say they understand, but I sense they don’t.
I have offended the sorcery of art. Ah, art!
Ah, liquidity! On the bulkhead of the horizon,
clouds collect, indifferently like restaurant fish.