The Fauves are visiting. Come to redesign

the patio, they have upstaged the heart.

They have brought with them their own music

and solemn gondoliers. Madame Fauve,

with a twisted braid, is dancing. So is

the decadence in the wall. I applaud

the thoroughness of the measurers, but

cannot sanction their pervasiveness.

The Fauves must leave. Stat. I have an

appointment with deadness at 3 PM.

They say they understand, but I sense they don’t.

I have offended the sorcery of art. Ah, art!

Ah, liquidity! On the bulkhead of the horizon,

clouds collect, indifferently like restaurant fish.