the man

      Sits there,

      And runs his perfect hands through perfect hair.

      He tells us he is having an affair.

      Like I’d know

      I think—

      He is no loathsome sprezzateur

      Nor some unsavvy stumbling sapeur

      He understands

      That which he needs to understand.

      And doesn’t worry with the rest.

      The man has not wasted his life—

      It’s been well-spent, and’s gone exactly as he meant it to.

      And he has some years left in him yet.

      This man, at least, has nothing to be ashamed about.

      Certainly, he would never even dream of eating meat

              that he had dropped on the floor (by accident)

              simply because it was so expensive.

      The man does not experience accidence.

      His poetry is perfect.

      I sit here, and regard the man.

      I think—

      I should very much like to hold you

                                                                                  over

                                                                                  a

                                                                                  volcano.