Spite Face

I duck by with my no
nose in the air. Aloft now, as I
was never, my nose
has cut me off

without a scent, for I
(just as in if thine eye )
Biblically offend its inspiration.
I suppose it has rarefied.

I, who cannot tell chopping
onion today from any other
fierce tears, say a week’s July
dead dragged up & counting,

beg pardon: my features’
mien repugnant the more
than usual, though polite
company hasn’t arrived

to say so, insist so, pointing out
damned Spot
, bad dog, & what a nose
didn’t that one have, for the drugs,
news, carrion & the privates.

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