the flavor of celerity at dawn

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,

tasted 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
in tonic,

or the flavor of celerity at dawn.