III. L'Impératrice

Again, taking care not to let her utensils collide in a dubious domestic
Happiness; and for the many who would follow without complaint, with grate
Fires to match that inner leaf of a sewing box—Degas’s Intérieur—of copper
That she recomposes our pain, our secure positioning of a body in a narrow bedframe.
Where do disobliging walls invite a heart less engaged; not for anonymous three-ways,
Recommend a stopping place? Smoothed fringes and damask weaves, like verdigris,

Darken by lamplight waves and exhaled oil? With these données—Scraped verdigris
Of the Empress gathering weight as she proceeds; in spite of the menacing domestic
Sphere—Either our will or our sight is vinegar haunting the wiped-off parts—Three-ways
Doubly broken because the flesh calls for broken tones. For a matured rancor, to grate,
And collect the efflorescence. She wants to operate and be realized within the bedframe’s
Rich foliage; but recognize you are unlike a client trivialized by mending coaxial copper

Cables protected from power losses by efficient shields of the same; copper
Freights back the vortices captured by Venus Express. Yet that loosened verdigris
Respired by a certain prone woman from the black shores of her bedframe
Rivals any space weather. As a thermal conductor, or its better, spider silk, the domestic
Missed, the high polish of a copper mirror relies on the manipulated chance to grate
Against an Empress. Derived from the halos of relentless pursuers of three-ways

And other fictions, she guesses that mauve oval changes allowing the three-way

Flux to pass, and exert its corrosive action on nonresembling substrates—Copper

Acetates, unforeseen until that grained metal is split open by a blue ocean; grate
Sensibilities in their depthless struggle for penetration. Perhaps zones of verdigris—
South-facing lichens when awake—Significant to Vergil’s audience past the domestic

Ivory gates—Bloomed above one whose back was thrown out in a rude bedframe?

The Empress dreams of this, too. In detour of the code of respectable bedframes,
Let civility fall to the floor’s crumpled clothes. Naturalist pulsations seek a third way
Beyond the tedium of rummaging in a satin-lined box, to draw together domestic
Fronts. Grind together ink galls after the wasps escape—Set about retrofitting copper
Plumbing—Uncertain she is seen, and prodded by an invisible goad, the verdigris
Forms motionlessly in the window—Left to interact with their means, acid grating

Atmospheres of Venus are certainly not a spectacle of the street. A twin planet grates
Us at wavelengths visible to the eyes—The Empress would allude to her bedframe.
You are standing in front of the door, examining the orthographic slips, the verdigris
Interiority, the accounting data with sufficient entries devoted to yourself. Three-ways
Occasionally gaining a foothold in the work as something irreparable. Oysters; high in copper,
And the requirements are not completely dietary, preserve the construct of domesticity.

Perhaps Intérieur is not grating, where our ideal Empress turns to blow her nose—Domestic
Headwinds of Venus provide centering for a room, not three-ways. From the verdigris
Of traversing baser waters, or a coppery sewing box, I most love your late-burning lamp from our bedframe.