The Hip of Our Golden Orb

Taking a French leave
To a Roman holiday
My car keys
Propped under the arm of a dead-drunk Jesuit
Draped in the hourglass
Of a dancing girl’s waist
Sleeping in a stupor
Her face a Chinese wall
“Goodbye,” I breathe between clamped lips

But my word fell, a tiny stone
And lay between the fat and spilled spirit
Of yesterday’s bacchanal
On the cloth of tomorrow’s new feast

When reverie mounts the sky
On the round hip of our golden orb

(And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good lord, show me the way)


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