that they might write of porcelain
fiction,  
     that they might don cloaks
and masks and attend the Venetian
carnival, in poem and dream
alone?
            seems such a waste,
a waste when paralleled,
          by a tartar stake and stale
bread yesteryear,
   or yesterday's ko'h'giel mo'h'giel:
3 eggs yokes blitzed
to a pale canary (almost)
           foam with ~2 teaspoons
of sugar, dolloped over like
       an ice sheath over the styxian
black, arabica...
             with the remaining:
      eaten like one might:
       cookie dough...
the raw the autobiographical,
better still,
    no minor truth every looks
sappy or boring,
   not, esp. when weaved into
ciphers of metaphor.