An Affection for Battered Objects

More duct tape. In his Weimar he cries out
For his repair. The rents reach for the sky;
Mere tatters are not held by paperclips.
I had this elephant when I was young.
Look at him now. The light is sicklied o’er
With blinds, the last Venetian charity
This man performs in darkness. He knows if
You ask, but in between he is a boy,
The brightest of his class, a lower form
Than he has yet acknowledged. I had these pants—
Envy me, envy me. I think I heard
That this has happened once or twice before,
To Adam and Erasmus and a Doge,
One who subscribed to fleshpots on demand.