I stick my nose into the clotted fur and whisper to death.
I warm up for your circus of insufficiencies. We’re bereaved
Of maleficent thrills that never comprehended who we were.
You can smell the protests of tragedy, the rectangular feasts and
Pistols, invisible to everyone. I encounter overeating crowds within
Me, weaving, bleeding, hands dirty, multitasking as they fall asleep.
It’s our oily contrasts, detailed protocols of deceit in our heartbeats.
“Elegant Woman at the Rail” by Paul César Helleu (1859-1927)