His restaurant killed our Latvian abstractor.
The modern body pulls its latest trick.
It paints itself an inch thick just in time
for seltzer, skyscraping, and color stock.
So, Rochester invents the mirror.
So, van der Rohe discovers light
is decoration. The skyline blows
its little fucking trumpet. So what?
What’s history to him or he to history?
We take our picture at the Villa of the Mysteries
for shame of having air to breath in hell.
The West turns on the oven, runs the car.
The mouth pretends it’s not ajar. The poets
won’t stop telling me about themselves.