Here, where vendrenuit stalks vendredi,
she's on display, skirts all the rage.
The outskirts, half-razed
to lofts and lowing fogbanks,
mix laughter, slaughter, brand,
and brand. She totters in her skirts
called by lights,
You know what you want !
one link in the food chain of desire.
(Who told you what you want ?)
Her glassy eyes slide up the glassy spikes
into the black-and-blueblood sky
where flightless deco buttresses allude
to nothing that she knows of.
She's starving, stilletoed, damp
as a newborn calf. Her eyes
dart like shiners; half-
blind, allured and alluring cultivar, hot-
house Rose of Charon, disingenue,
lean on the hog butcher beside you
the bristled one who
is ever sans souci !
The lagoons of his pig paradise drain
into the cash green city ditch of Farm Tech,
where logos ripple backwards among
where our meat comes from
(and where it goes)
She holds her silk purse close. Hermes
psychopompos, hog butcher
of the over- and underworlds,
guides her past the tempting lights,
telling her where to look,
and where not to, down,
to read the crayoned cardboard
and meet the glance where favor, blessing drown.