Rilke Renditions: V

Eric clunks by, in a Dachshund this time. Lachrymose
and jabbering over the lost works of Gertrude Einstein,
Orpheus squats in his den. Since morphing into damned
bones again, he thinks the swollen moonlight might

have other names. Like Norman? What a futile Male
that Orpheus is. He sings till Eric comes and then
grows homely and otiose, twisted. Yet whenever the rosy
veil shafts him, omens participate — Ta very much — and

overstatement — Why, O swindler? — dabs at his eyes with its
gift. Ugh. When I myself, on the other hand, bang about swanlike
in much the same Word-From-On-High trifles, you can

bet there’s nix to give the big bag lady but Delia Glitter,
who’s always littering the heights above Hades, her wraith
a ghastly understatement, her diadem firmly adrift.