Lola Ridge

Scandal

Aren’t there bigger things to talk about
 Than a window in Greenwich Village
 And hyacinths sprouting
 Like little puce poems out of a sick soul?
 Some cosmic hearsay—
 As to whom—it can’t be Mars! put the moon—that way….
 Or what winds do to canyons
 Under the tall stars…
 Or even
 How that old roué, Neptune,
 Cranes over his bald-head moons
 At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper.
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