the floor moves us

hors d'oeuvres, snails

18th century chandeliers 

hang from nails

 

all this jewelry on 

mummified bodies

a spirit drinks us in

where appetites fail

 

at a social function 

strutting like lemon chicken 

lost in reverberations

drunk in the museum

 

history means nothing

without a kiss

missing hints about 

the mystery of our existence 

 

we was in the 

stone age 

experiencing a

renaissance 

 

feeling this 

holocene's 

lacking

je ne sais quoi 

 

everything here would 

look good on our walls 

if we could only remember

where we were coming from