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Without her compass, pale Jeanne is lost.
I watch her fall down Michel's thinning throat.
Oh, God! I know no worse humiliation than
appetite, or the fate of adjutant compromise.
Outside, on roads damask'd red and white,
tin trucks, forsworn emissaries, outperform
the expectations of their owners as second-
hand misery forgives the sins of owls.
How brash is absence. How crass abscess.
In the face of catastrophe one doesn't know
which scenario not to contemplate, into
which path it is least sensible not to stumble.
Of all there is to know, one reaches for
the raisins of the heart upon which the
sensory reptiles will not feed, upon which
the tactile falcons are reluctant to reciprocate.
What no one wants is paltriness, especially
poverty made grave by singularity. Rather,
an atrial need for artefacts unmercantile.
O, pour aller jusqu'à toi, quel drôle de chemin.