portion of the artwork for Richard Weaver's poem

Port of Call
Richard Weaver

Money floats down from the ceiling.
Fingers laugh behind the walls.
Alabaster and perfume, surcingle
and tympani. There are zoo animals
larger than these thick-skinned creatures
to whom I offer my hat with champagne.
As civilized as the next. And there are
always, lobsters to be walked
at the end of a pale blue satin ribbon.
A block in two hours, pausing for wine
and water, a day-old croissant.
Marveling at the open mouths,
the frantic handkerchiefs. This,
of course, is exercise as the Greeks
intended. In the adjacent arrondissement
a massive Renaissance bed lies
between us, whoever you are. Rumpled
sheets and bolster pillows landscaping
the silk horizon. What’s more,
those frames I mentioned, hesitate
with a consumptive ecstasy.
I would not say they hover
but it is once again morning
and my homard and I are thirsty.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 51 | Spring/Summer 2018