Classic Poem

Your death, dear Lady, was quite cold
For all the brave tears and ultimate spasm.
So civilized were your thin hands, I marvel
They too, like jellyfishes, came from protoplasm.

O ineffable cheeks of rhododendron bloom,
It cannot be you’ve withered so mortally!
Your husband is heartbroken—he said so,
Winking at his cocktail, talking dollars carefully.

Dead Lady, it is revealed that you were twenty-six
And died giving us an homunculus with bald head:
May your black hair darken even the dark Styx,
May your soul have no tears, forgetful of protoplasm.

We buried you in the unremissive ground.
I went home. Somewhere I heard the clang of a hearse.
You are very far away, dear Lady—
As I light this cigarette—and under an inscrutable curse.