Soirée vivante

I get all regrets
to my party! So decomposes my up-to-the-last-
minute gaudy hour: yellow balloons
flaccid, the bubbly
corked in its rack. Costumed sommelier
hovering the epergne
(figment himself, & soon dismissed)
rescinds the all-but-imminent cascade.
Somebody has been saying about
me that I don’t exist, I bet, & bewitching the centerpiece
petals to hurl themselves up into this brown fugue.

As if I wouldn’t recognize a soul! If a soul
dropped into my party I’d nimbly
enough avert & dissemble, confide
I snuck in myself but moments ago to linger
likewise this very foyer, where no
hostess at all
bestirs a fragrance or lifts the lid
of a shadowed but brightening eye our way.
Surely some brillianter calendar
has jotted in over her instantly
null & palimpsest occasion just us two!

Just so
is all not lost. What a leggy old
geranium you lived to be, darling! the more
succulent than I’d guessed,
bowing, now, lips to my livid wrist,
first strains of a tune-to-be-soon
sidling our waists, twitching the circlet of fringe on my hips.

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