Despite near-
constant quibbling
and torpedoing of birds,
amid sirens,
rants of nearby buzzsaws
and rap
of distant hammers,
the fat pink man is asleep on the stoop—
slumped
with old joy,
stinking
a bit,
a warped chest of crumbs,
pulsing
constellation,
divining proof:
simplicity—
subsists.
Adulteration and
virginity
can yet—coexist.
