The Depth of Elegance
Michael Angelo Tata

Chelsea boys in skin-tight
everything prance about
like silly mannequins right
out of Macy’s, Herald
Square, and here I am
on a gold, crushed velvet
sofa pondering the whirring
of the cosmos, which seem
just to move and groove
without diminishing any,
day in, day out, day-glo.
James will celebrate Bastille
Day dressed as Catherine
dé Medici—“too many
Marie Antoinettes, mon
petit,” well blow me
down. A disco globe
makes its appearance
in the sky—some call it
the moon—and, post-
haste, light fragments
into irregular polygons
of space-love—some call
them stars—which pump
and pulse and percolate,
making life quite festive
and perhaps initiating a
block party or two. Vivez
les Jetsons! Cafés spill
out into the street with
polite, coiffed people
taking nibbles from
over-sweetened slabs
of iced ecstasy, placing
warm, rosebud lips
against steaming aliquots
of liquefied contemplative
moments, turning to one
another and uttering some
jewel of an observation
or other—“The moon
is a scoop of white lemon
sorbet,” “The Bridge and
Tunnel crowd is out tonight,”
“I never party above Houston.”