Perfume:
a sin distilled
to be served
from flacons
and uncorked lips.
But doubt remains
among those who still
cagily bide their time
at Hell’s own threshold,
wondering whether
corruption remembers
if it came from above
or from below—
Why—does not Hell
still smell of Heaven,
and wonted perfumes
on arms,
necks, and earlobes
fly men wherever they will?
How many nights—
how many Heavens and Hells—
are folded into one
in those reedy, greedy,
fragrant flames?
Something of this, perhaps,
may yet be read
in a morning newspaper—
soon to perish, like so many,
by the glorious sundown dusk.
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