poem: for/against

to what degree are the romantics, the pin-addled
girls in black/white deconstructed
jumpsuit-jail-cell-dresses now allowed

to take fruit, wine, a little
foreign cheese— like the system,
it is only half molded, they say
playfully/carefully— out to the dregs
of connecting countries:
the border, very political, a great
green country best fit
for running hounds and sitting
in tweed, reading, watching.

you can smell
it on their hands— they are holding
their cards close, they are
lying.