Subtlety came to us from Latin
(by way of the clever French)
in that thin, gossamer term
subtilis, which in turn
is a web of under-stitched
subtext. What joe really gives

a flying doublefudge fuck
about lacy coy underwords?
Twixt the stark, sooty verbs
it's card tricks in a tar-dark hall,
earnest Kama Sutra recitations
to a rubber smutstore doll.

A horse is a horse unless she's
a Mississippi queen, an allegory
crawling from a swamp of contempt.
I metaphor lunch, but the queen
wouldn't listen, baffled by menus
plain as her face. Moot.
Mute. Mote. Moat.
The meanings collapse,
drown in that lazy river.
Undercurrents churn mud.