Author

Her gaze out
of the bookjacket photo
is clear as glass.
Her neck
arched at an angle
only a camera lens
could love
is stemware
shown to
calculated advantage.
She chooses
words
the way other artisans
might cut
mass production crystal
another
precious urban artiste
who polished
her expensive image first
then almost learned
to write to it
trapping
quasi New Yorker moments
like dead flies
in the brittle bottoms
of champagne flutes
bought at a Saks seconds sale.
I wonder whether
it would be better art
for someone to
circle a moistened finger
along the smooth rim
only until the glass
bells its
subtly untrue note
or to keep stroking
until that flawed crystal
shatters smashed shards
into those insanely
expensive shoes she bought
for the book tour
because
that may be
that the only way
she'll have
any damn edge at all.