That one little nugget of beauty
That just confronted you,
That might be all you get this whole year,
The fair face of the woman walking
Made prominent
By the rich, gray sky,
You walk within your grooves,
You’ve feasted on a rapturous qualm of God’s,
And now you are the feasted,
Now you lay inert before the buzzards
Until the newspapers get to you,
Or until the basin of winter’s hellfire