There is a harp

old school,
sits at her harp playing,

strumming our notes
on a porcelain ground –

someone’s painted
the harp orange and
splashed it on the chair,

decked her in a gas mask
and oxygen tank

invoked Fukushima
on a Meissen figure –

it’s as if the whole
modern world came out of
some Grecian idyll,
some long-dressed susceptibility,
some classical-music figurine,

and then was added poison