ezra pound was sixteen ounces on:
pull down thy vanity, he waged. pull down.
and if i’m honest—wracked with authenticity—
i’d be padding the confessional to say:
i’m just as good as drunken dickens through the
fog of orphans and oenophiles.
as good as t.s. tempting fate with peaches,
prinzessin preaching michelangelo.
(german, yes, it must be germane!)
but nobody croons stories of a jeff,
pens a twopence tale and lets the
pages linger in the library of legacies.
no song of steen, alas.
no, no; but emily can conjure emdashes
until the volumes sew up alphabets and
shriek eureka; there’s something here!
or nothing, really, and we’re just hungry for ontology with tea—.