Umbrellas offer temporary
crowns.  This rain makes me homesick
for a sea not mine for decades.  I order

“crevettes” with shrimp—but sold out.
So much for contemporary irony.
Yes, yes, I’m ready to order.  In my active

voice, I call my meal forth as if a magnet
in an iron wilderness.  I’m drunk from today’s
art museums that believe their own . . .

monologues.  The cutting edge, here,
slices until there is abstract blood.  Love,
wounds, require art theories years later:

zero’s kiss.  I watch three drunks
overdressed in melancholy wait
for a fourth comrade: How do they?
How do they even twist out of underwear? 
Airports nearby confiscate corkscrews.  Riddles
dislike the rain, answers steaming windows.