I think that you should come upstairs
And drink with me,
Because there is nothing else the doctor can do:
You’ve already showed every young man in the regiment
Your tits:
The sun washed you amidst the clay-figured wild flowers
Along the battlefield,
While planes flew and plummeted:
And the peacocks grew in the shady symmetry of what
Seemed to be rainbows,
Along the cut in the valley from which the mountains grew,
And there the cliff dwellings and the ceremonies
Of the perfected virgins who could become
Stewardesses underneath the ornaments of birds of prey;
And someone said there was just a little house off in the
Forest of your hair,
Back in the elegance of this unseemly painting;
And from it a bride rode over the creek and went to school.
The buses turned and returned and the sugar cane
Flumed. The green copper cannons rolled in, and the wind
Blew;
And the beautiful girls went and then returned to their
Little houses and their tiny swimming pools all of which was
Hidden from view.