Jet pears hung squalidly against the drapes
and his fingertips glistened with frost.
The orange sun melted his nape.
In his drafty palace, there lived a statue
and over the palace Augustus sent his vines,
cerise cries in the white air.
Tender little shots rang out.
Waterfalls swelled and kissed before him,
knelt and screamed as crowns spun
through the night, the night of Augustus
which was like an army of marauders,
unceasing and full of insight,
the dashing snow! the fierce! the free!
and the waterfalls were still as flames.
The voices began, like so many daggers.
At first Augustus only felt them
as doves attempting to hide in his breast,
but soon they surrounded him completely
like a crown of screams, as clearly as sand
pouring through glass in the winter desert.
He was the metal of his crown at last.
Frank O' Hara