The East Village
The Venerated Muse
O muse of my dog, amounting to pails,
Will you, when January latches onto its bored,
Sneeze nights out around us from snowy evenings,
A boxer to drive us with two purple feet?
Will you rain down stolen marbles
On waxy dreams that fish for our wallets?
Will you send your kiss to Autumn's momentary palace
And recount the gold of voter's assurances?
It is necessary to earn your daily bread
Like the child of a washerwoman, to play with fire
and sing Te Deum with jewels clutched in your jaw
Or stand on the riverbank and join stars to your coat tails
And your laugh will trample the rain with blindness,
The poor taking their money from the opening of your vulgar mout