Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

In place of yesterday's champagne,
Only lassitude, heavy as fog.

Creature and I, we hide in warm house,
From mad dogs baying from freight.


When you wake, hares hide in bed;
Impudent Picasso faces stare

Outside: cold, unmown grass, stars.
Emasculated lamb feeds lines


To dark Cornelius. It whispers,
"Tête tordue, tête avalée."

We should all have van Ledenberg's luck,
Comforted on potence by box,


Where thoughts, finally tetris'd in place
In pleasing way, reveal reine Seele.

Forgive me; I did not leave house today.
I did not taste sweetness of peach.