Catastrophe in a bric-a-brac shop.
The proprietor lies murdered.
Pieces of cups, jars, and vases
Have attained the disorderly freedom
So obnoxious to bankrupt fanatics.
Once the cups, jars, and vases
Were symmetrical and empty,
And immersed in the task of holding nothing.
Now they have snatched a voice from fragments;
Spell many an accidental sentence;
Renounce the hollow lie.
Death, you take the stiffly obvious shapes
Of objects and crack them with your fingers—
A shattered invitation
To curiosity and anticipation—
And I am grateful to you for that.
My eyes grow weary scanning the living array.
Each man takes his inch upon the shelves
And will not move, until your paw
Robs him of microscopical convictions.

Dear Minna, read the newspapers
And gloat with me over death’s industry.
Banker, Freudian, Socialist,
Knocked from the shelves and changed
To symbols that can lure conjecture.
It is well that we are metaphysical.
Death must not become
A mere black frame surrounding
The memorized reiterations.
Death must remain an irresistible
Beckoning to reckless speculations
And continue to offer an amorous arm
To the recalcitrant antics of words.