Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black

I

My love, broad-backed and musical,
drove a bike and went to school,
then the opera palled
and the faraway Mamba withered
from the world, still Gershwiny, still permissible.
I unfurl my botanical eye
and become a statistic in an audition,
an initial skit.
My love is breakfasting with a stylish director.
He is an inception in a muscial comedy with a pointless
ending.
I crush a monkey wrench. I am a lacquered editress
in the ticklish domain.
A certain sadness Zabriskie overestimated
sounds in the brain
like a gong
thrice dimmed.