Art Nouveau Collectables

You will limp forever before whiplashed lines that constantly remind

There is material to be worked, a poem inscribed in a glass body,

Trailing the same color--the same interview of toned chests or flying buttress,

Eel or lily question. Once again, an ignorance of the obstacles or social problems.

A pulled ray of sun breached the blower's furnace. Look how the stem wilts

Band of thorns reflecting back in his blue glass. Too bad none of them are for sale.

Collecting uranium, vaseline glass is a minefield, and laws limit the sale
To measurably safe levels of contaminant--as a crystal atomizer, given to you, reminds

Emits a green glow under black light. Where the winged scroll, the pineapple fan wilts

One of those natural effects in high humidity. The insipid collector shifting his body

To recall the past of his circus, when a know-it-all manner mattered less, a weight problem

Preceded this passion, but the comparison is unwise, sending us back to buttress

The thoughtfully built collapse in us. Each diverse wish for a swan's neck if to buttress

Those watery heads, if to let in the light and be filled by stained glass, yet the fire sale
Of bold, sensuously blown glass will go on, without the decoration, of even the problem

Of you, lacking the vision of Horta's banisters, and no such logic here, we are reminded.
The pipe creates a bubble in the molten glass. Was she ever, was she on paychecks there, in body?

But our homework, long ago, consisted of ten problems, and time, the opponent, was wilting in us,

Otherwise people write her off. Yet a mood is limitless--with a stylus in hand, an age's wilting

Die-back of certain vases bears the impress on a wall, on a whim, where the tendrils buttress

Bel-étage of this sensibility confined to postage stamps, the Tiffany lamps cast-iron bodies

Of a young woman's arabesques, and I am not sure they speak the language anymore, sales

Have slumped among the young. My eyes water in the cigarette smoke, it almost reminds me

I saw a reticent child I was retracing the cameo or the marquetry, and faced with the problem

Of overpreciousness or the hidden germ already bearing antique marks. A problem of love
Was an antagonizing force, as it was modified for later commissions. The rest of us, wilting

Before the rubbish of what we had said, under the grapevine electrolier, it almost reminds.

The wisps of grass enclosing at dusk around us, and together, we had no greater buttress.

But these molds, inevitably, lost their definition, words were no longer for items for sale.

Much of my learning is through apprenticeship, our childish way of punishing our bodies.

Holding our objects for closeness, there is, for instance, the problem of love for sale,

We had no greater buttress but this, visible—right there—the best place to sell glass, it reminds
Of the first workshop, wilting and widening with centrifugal force the vessels of our bodies.