MANNERS

GINGERLY, the poets sit. Gingerly, they spend The adjectives of dribbling flatteries, With here and there a laceration Feeding on the poison of a smile. In the home of the poet-host That bears the slants of a commonplace, Eagerly distributed— The accepted lyrical note— The poets sit. The poets drink much wine And tug a little at their garments, Weighing the advantages of disrobing. (It is necessary to call them “poets” Since, according to custom, Titles are generously given to the attempt.) Sirona, cousin of the poet-host, Munches at the feast of words. She endeavors to convince herself That her hunger has become an illusion. The poets, capitulating to wine, Leave their birds and twilights, Their trees and cattle at evening, And study Sirona’s body— Their manacled hands still joined By the last half-broken link. Beneath her ill-fitting worship Young Sirona fears That the poets are wordy animals Circled by brocaded corsets.... Sirona, if you stood on your head Now, and waved the brave plan of your legs, Undisturbed by cloth, The poets would be convinced That you were either insane or angling. But an exceptional poet, Never present at these parties, Would compliment your vigour And scoff at the vain deceptions of privacy. Vulgarity, Sirona, is often a word Invented by certain men to defend Their disdain for other men, who chuckle At the skulking tyrannies of fashion. Few men, Sirona, dare to become Completely vulgar, but many Nibble at the fringes.