Sprezzatura grabs neighborhoods by their throats.
Even grandmothers conceal their weapons in public.
Gangsters practice yoga breaths to keep
from swearing with right hands on Bibles.
Children study cool weather on their ways
through the parks to school.
Armies at ease shop at homes and return home.
The virtue that coats the town in red
and doesn’t set in the evening inspires
a whole people. Earth swallows
a population. Oceans gut ships.
The sky falls around chins
suffocating tall living. Still,
the commuter rail drags more bodies
to the sacrifice. The icing
at the centers, while the news spreads
and hyper-extends core chores,
collects political figurines from admiration.
Each personal disaster drips magma down
calm concrete canyons that buzz with honey bees.
Rumor has it that cold mash potato mounds
threaten the newcomers even while the Sphinx
nibbles at hors d’oeuvres leading each line.
__ and the word steak passes from lips
in chain reaction. The calamity press
that starches pants from lungs increases
the perfect hair. During the matches
and steamed mob, no sweat.