Brent Bechtel


Failing to gnaw on the plastic straw.

The barfly
butters his foyer
with a fat girl
from an odd January,
dyed in Villon's time.

Snow, this full,
fragile head,
slips sidewise,
full of dressing.

The open street-door
lets in the tongue,
thundering slantwise
and cold on the steady car -
heckling at you
and your aesthetic values.

You will read
these flowers from New York,
and lose your second husband
to a spilled cream soda.

Orange, always orange.