Elision

Being an erudite endomorph, I simulaate earth,
thus engender effulgence, a kind of ozone
I believe is not easily broken through.
I listen to songs and eat dark chocolate
studded with endorphins or pain-relieving
properties, despise endive even if harvested
in estuaries, those wide tidal mouth of rivers.
I love the river that flows through town
as it bridges one part to another. This way
I can easily leave behind the day’s eschatologic
teachings to the underworld and believers,
enter with élan a world of sweet tea
and éclairs, elegize men such as Napoleon, also
an endomorph, who in public always clutched
his heart for fear he’d lose it to another ecru-clad
peasant. Josephine sewed a special pocket inside
his jacket. But soon Elba was his island.
He wandered rocky beaches, only found starfish,
urchins, sea cucumber. As the earth’s crust bulges
and bows, I, too, identify with those inner echoic
workings, try to emend errors of passion
by extolling enthusiastically the sweet contents
of an epergne, overflowing.