the fear of luxury is mutual.
I can see it in their mouths, between
breathes of cold. it leaves with the last
bit of fog breath attachment-
but it does not last the wind. i bought in
once. the winter grey could not be seen then,
painted on lines of sight then.
and the air was so clean
on december streets, blushing bootleg blues
emotion, but it could not last the wind.
the weight of debt is mutual.
I can see it hidden
in pea coat pockets
carrying elephants eating eggplants,
and paintings of still life-without eggplants-
bought with credit
extentions; so we all could have long hair.
its december again
and assembly is lost in the winter grey
like the taste of lemon seeds
or the flavor of celerity at dawn.