What I remember most is what he did to the couple
   who sent his best pasta back to the kitchen,

Aristocrats, they were
made to walk over,
to be proud of their scars:

Your manners much in evidence: please
pass the water jug and would you kindly
loosen the handcuffs just a tad? They pinch.

Marmalade will bring the devices. Keep them
damp and away from sunlight. Any sudden
shocks will set them off, or—if you’re unlucky—

Why did you pick this line of work at all?
I love the symmetry, the play of force,
the smooth precision of well-oiled pieces.

THESE ARE THE THINGS WE THINK ARE BEAUTIFUL:
Flames and money with colors. Good thick paper
rubbing between the fingertips like oil.

All ashen-tongued and peacock-eyed, Juno,
the goddess of the marriage bed, the gray
of heart, betrayed a thousand splendid ways

Bliss. Sits bright and bolt and lightening on the pillows
in the bed. The Maharishi said on days
like this one never minds. I’m fond, though, of the wheedle

It’s the rhythm and small plosive bombs in the mouth,
on the lips of the whisperer (me) who would like
in the best of all possible worlds to rhyme

Some fires you start, you can’t seem to put
out. It’s that one match
struck, which glowers throughout