Because the king
     decrees that every Jew
     must buy his wedding-right
     in unsold porcelain
     from the royal chinaworks，
     here he stands， an amorous Jew，
     gazing at luminous
     suns and moons arrayed
     on doths of velvet-blue，
     earth that has married fire twice，
     that has been shaped and named
     for what it comprehends： sherbets， salads，
     gravies， desserts. He lifts a platter fine
     as alabaster in cathedral windows：
     salvation， the passage of light
     through bone. Ah， but
     not for you， the store-man says.
     Closeted， in shipping crates
     are pieces no one else will buy
     baboon fops in feathered caps，
     chimpanzees in petticoats.
     Visitors will later testify，
     his home was comfortable，
     despite the china apes
     peering from every corner.