Classic Poem

She is a grotesque
He would pass her by in the street this winter
Seeing the drum before her
And the bouquets of yellow rice thrown in her hair
Her breasts
wear little blue veils of veins to mask them
This is her costume This was the way of finding
A queer shape for herself

This year he is not in the streets
after the red heels of the maple
His arm is not the gay arm around the soft waists of the girls

He is cold as a tide of flesh cooling
when the blood halts in the body
And the lean steps of the heart fall one by one

The curtain shakes all night in the window
Like a fan at the cold embers
Scarecrow
hung-man in the wind
Stop rattling your bones at that white crow the moon