bowtie
today's is the rich red of cabernet wine
dotted with dollops of salt strained from brine
furled and furrowed, each ruffle
like a viennese truffle
and tied tight enough to halt passage of time
understanding calvinism
"humans are cruel by nature," says the girl over there,
setting her jaw against the pastoral air.
the tin-pail plash at tess's milking station
echoes the melancholy of predestination:
no room on god's ark for you, angel clare.
guy in green, nodding off
cocooned in your hoodie, its strings hanging loose
so the hood is scrunched up like the nose of a moose,
emitting almost inaudible snores
while we blather on about droite de seigneurs--
good luck with your thesis, my sleeping papoose
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