I could speak of the cultivated anguish
Of discussing Chaupin, even as I watched
The corrosive drillheads of the world
Burrow into us, her and me, or watching,
In silent resignation, the swell of her breasts
As she delicately sipped delicately priced tea,
Except that, words, and feeble ones at that
Are too feeble a coin to buy a moment's shared breath.
