A mellifluous sextet
circled in awed child beauty,
          reserved for post-modernists
in the dead mary-go-round
Inferno.  Civil war is
                                  on the tongues of roses. Trap-
                                                                           door seats, enigmatic music,
control of arms gyrating
out of American dreams.
Boring clocks toll for the death
                                                                of painters holding depraved,
easy lives in service of
                                     stripped one-hour masters,

but we all have hair and bills,
neglect and hours setting
up appointments to escape
what we owe                    to turpentine
           obsessions for running off.