Cornstarch, milk, and London's Springtime moment

 Our paper of record sent a man

 to London's lightly covered in-

 troduction of menswear sugges-

 tions, and took the precaution

 of illustrating his excitement

 with enough liberality to read

 through it. It would call for a

 harder heart than ours to doubt

 his report, of many reduced to

 tears. Deconstructions do this. 

Houdon ate the heart out of his own blancmange, so uncontrolled was the voracious jubilation for its crumbs. But there he was, the gender blessed at last to breathe within the milkened cornstarch of idolatry in motion. Who would not have wept to share the day? 

 At home, then, later - possibly much 

 later - the usual sordid questions 

 tend to lay the celebrant low. Where 

 can one wear the thing; how can one 

 know if it isn't a knock-off, or even 

 if fits? What if it shows up on Amazon?

 But, oh, is it not just chickening out

 in art's defense, even to ask the price?