right (or left) tells
sinister stories
in tones of strange pleasure
and contary diction
with aqua essence spilling
hints at a bitter welling
eclipsed by a weariness
so plain and forcefully pressed
as a crushed adam's apple
in sad acoustics of aquiesence
there to be read in red 
that rectilinear response
to the hopelessly gray

right (or wrong) tells
spinster smithed glory
sticking it out in sad districts
where nothing hides in observations
and no seeking lurks only
pinned statistic needles
in elegent mortifications
pinned and always pointing
away from the one true alien
who threatens to hide her breasts
ever more from the damp metapyhics
of old white men