THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs On the night sky hair of the women, And the long light-fingered men Spoke to the dark-haired women, “Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier.” How could he sit there among us all Guzzling blood into his guts, Goblets, mugs, buckets— Leaning, toppling, laughing With a slobber on his mouth, A smear of red on his strong raw lips, How could he sit there And only two or three of us see him? There was nothing to it. He wasn’t there at all, of course.
The roses leaned from the pots. The sprays snot roses gold and red And the roses slanted crimson sobs In the night sky hair And the voices chattered on the way To the frappe, speaking of pictures, Speaking of a strip of black velvet Crossing a girlish woman’s throat, Speaking of the mystic music flash Of pots and sprays of roses, “Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier.”