why everybody hates it—
the manifestos of metaphor, the mad
voice that mumbles all night
in the dark: this is like that, that
is this, the phosphorescent
flares of vision, the busyness
of words sweeping up
after all that splatter. ...
When the princess spoke toads
everybody loathed her,
but when her mouth spouted jewels
it was hardly better:
Not much difference, muttered the courtiers,
between a slide of slime, of jumpy
lumps on the table,
and a spurt of little glittering pellets
hitting you in the eye!
It would be better all around
if that lady kept her shapely
lips
tightened on nothing.
Although, as a matter of fact,
those marshals and admirals
kept on dreaming of things
that were—like what?
like rubies? like
emeralds?
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