For Eva.
The trophies of eight
Million Men
Sprout through the grass:
Horns and antleries, ornate
And out of velvet; so unremarkabe
In plentitude, still they dazzle
Specious-stately, lower-case wise.
Quiet and new in the sun, they gowl
In the gloaming, their
Vernal snouts bland
& Coarse in repetition.
So fair and deaf, in this autistic mood
Tap through this venal madness,
Hornbook in hand.
