Admiring young men lounged in beanbag
chairs, plucking sweated grapes, fanned
and framed by branches of wildest origins, damned
for their wandering eyes. Why learn from bright hag
the danger of the body when they can corrupt and divide,
inclusive vision of lust suffering all
comers: ballerinas in swan-armed fall
to the hands of such men as grasp anything in sight,
their bodies stirred from pronounced motion. Exercise
caution before unlaughing vigilants who forbid
the book to preserve what is not unsavory for a few
who tiptoe, wipe smirks, and pluck eyes,
for nothing can be good art that is not simply good,
and maleficial substance can never be blithe or true.
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