Sometimes I want to see them
Dance, their delicate bodies
Spin like cocoons, then fall
Like a cone from a pine. Their sharp
Silk edges ravish me and I climb
Into golden peaks that transform
The world's slime.
Why does a curtain of smoke
Phrase this decline
Between me and mine,
A cheapened sign
Of an elegant time?
Truly my boys are golden:
Their flower-pot heads,
Whose petunias
Will creep from the dead
Soil sporting new seed;
The untouchable deed must
Bloom. But a fog fills the room
And muffles the air,
Then settles
And chokes on my hair.
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