Fearing your violent side, I tried to keep

my mouth shut when I saw how you’d

rigged this game to destroy beauty—

and not just beauty, but the chintzy,

low-brow smut that I like too—

devoured whenever the moth is hungry.

But you always hated the grudging

“Yes,” and made me broach the issue

of how you snatch away our beauty

in gloating silence, leave us bleached

like belly-up whales on the sand’s ecru.

Not even a bone to gnaw when I’m hungry?

It’s either you or vanity…

what else is there for hope? True,

this might have been your point: beauty

is the bitter sponge of lye you lift up daily

to our mouths, while you consume

us with the blows of your hand, your beauty

like a moth, always feeding, and still hungry.