In Book VII of The Secret Notes
of Constantine Colossus
he summarizes what he's learned
from his 4 o'clocks with kings and queens,
from his morganatic wife
who sold their son to sausage men,
from his large collection of poniards
jewelled and venomed, and long use
of gnostic texts and lemon inks.
Life is short and wonky-ish, he says,
our felicity at all times
frail. Roses fade, but grass persists.
Love is ephemeral, plutocrats,
like the beggarman, must sleep.
Still, gold ain't all that shabby.
My edition of The Secret Notes
is dented, as though I weren't
the first who threw it at the wall.
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