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.