A rough draft
for an ars poetica
Grave mouths of lions
Sinuous smiling of young crocodiles
Along the river's water conveying millions
Isles of spice
The boys in striped knitware
make the waves sprout--is it a storm?
Everything coos and the bathing girl
consults the mirror of the skies
Take a young girl.
Fill her with ice and gin
shake it all up to make it androgynous
And return her to her family
Pepita queen of Venice
When you go beneath your shutter
All gondoliers call out:
Orson Welles is a poet
through his violence
and through his grace.
Never does he tumble