Drawn to a painting of the femme fatale,
Recall the panting of the animal
Before primal became civil .

I hate this solidity,
The stodginess I feel .
It is the end of the brightness,
The end of spirit
And adventure .

Don’t talk like that .
Men of our years have no business
Playing around with any adventure
They can avoid .

Otherwise, swerve about-face the straight-lace,
And spin the fateful curve topsy-turve,
Oneiric in shadowed noir .