The truth is none of our business.
Our adolescent eye-at-the-keyhole rooting
In a sweetheart’s soiled linen for a clue

To the day’s dirt and its secretions is disgusting
And weird, and after awhile we lose interest
In the way novelist Saul Bellow’s nostrils dilate

Going up an elevator ripe, as he’s written,
As bananas with matrons, or Joyce imploring
Nora Barnacle to let him watch her do what she

Must firmly, finally, explain to him is none
Of his business, and last Friday a professor
From the U. of Minnesota complained the fable

Alice in Wonderland an imperialist treatise,
Inadvertent or not, a vade mecum on how never
To conquer or explore, all that reckless falling,

Ingestion and size change being mainly erotic
Mockery, though Carroll’s kinkiness and mirth was
None of our business, sexist of course, and further,

How Lord Acton, during a Victorian campaign
Against syphilis examined with the speculum vaginas
Of two hundred London prostitutes in as many

Minutes, which was abusive and none of his business,
Why didn’t he examine the men, her resentment keen
A century after Acton’s marathon, honed by his jokes