Pearl. . . onyx . . . emerald — wrote Emily.
Rhopalic necklace, and acrostic, too?

The pearl, the onyx, and the emerald.
A lexicon of flowers that want no syntax.

Saxifrage marmalade: kerosene sherbet;
Laser taco: a world of names means zero.

I am an atheist, an anarchist,
And an anomalist.
There is no continuity.
Sextus Empiricus.

Ruining along the illimitable inane.
Given a regular meter, anything goes.
In any order.
That is fidelity.

A semiprecious poem of farewells.
Remember emerald and Emily
And poem.
Here a virgin pearl of pause.

A meter can remember and project
Facsimiles of continuity:
Post hoc, genau, post hoc, et cetera,
Post ergo propter, which makes sense enough.

The ligaments of memory and will
Are weak and meager, like our tender hides.
A poem wants an exoskeleton —
The oyster's shell, the lobster's cuticle —
To save for it the secrets of the deep.

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul.
That's my last duchess painted on the wall.

Of man's first disobedience and the fruit —
It isn't just for breakfast any more.