A baby anymore but blue is still your favorite 
blue. Then the nosebleeds began. Sadness 

could remedy our having started, but why not 
the baldness of anything? Why not some bitchin’ 

Cafeteria Art. I would like a little 
let’s not even talk about it. More salt 

on my fries. Someone is crying into a hamburger, 
an EpiPen with the cap off hits the floor. 

I can’t sit facing the divider with the dioramas on top. 
The miniature duplex with a leak in the upstairs bathroom. 

I’ll never eat, nor be inoculated against this 
bizarre and vernacular iteration of awe. 

The shade of cerulean Emma R. used to fill in the sea 
is the closest we have to suffering well. 

When the Mona Lisa was caked the other day, 
at the Louvre, stuck behind its glass encasement, 

that felt like love to me. “Think about the Earth,” 
the vandal said, and then threw a fistful of rose petals 

to the floor. The pinnacle of living must be something 
like licking refined sugar off the dried yellow ocher 

of Lisa’s high cheeks. Or is it the rose, 
in the moments just before that man, 

with all that love in his heart, 
yanked its pretty little skirt clean off.