The world is flame; the red curls along its edges
Need combed out to allow for:
Men, gods, animals, monsters.
If you would suck in that gold bib,
Creased beneath swaying arches—grey, cool as paste—
We would have gusts, not guests, for dinner;
We would, while we eat, ever have musicians play;
And we would eat the wind, the fat smoke, and the guitars.