Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window

White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!

Love, love, the low smokes roll

From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.

Does not my heat astound you! And my light!

All by myself I am a huge camellia

Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,

I think I may rise—

The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene

Virgin

Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,

By whatever these pink things mean!

Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him

(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)—

To Paradise.