Paris, 1934

To see a death of purple curling leaves Is murder, grave, my strange and lovely core. The carbon lights are scratching paper sleeves, Are drunken voice, empty heart and open sore. To see the city lights and Gothic shapes, The lines and robes that roll like engine head. How strange the lovely hand that cuts the grapes, Her body, name and wrist as black as lead. To see the hungry mouths of scaring crows Who bite the hands of burning tower tips. The quiet carbon songs of eaten boughs Are eyes of trees and necks of lips. To settle, marsh of flame and air and foam Is mute; It's never, never coming home.