A Critique of the Bat

The limbs of king crabs bathed in salts
Cannot pretend at the command
Of leather-winged somersaults.
Of twisting from a silouette.
Of squirming in a dirty coat.
They are all so peasant poor in furs
And faults and sins beyond all doubt of conscience.
Wicked and romantic; these are dreams.
They order eyes to follow,
And command the innocent view,
And the tongue to moisten on the hollow of the listening lip.
Supreme of every earthern ghost,
Of every emerald hue,
And putting them to sleep.
Weep for the loss the morning shows
When the husband finds what has been taken--
Or rather finds it not--, when he awakens.

Drown your loves and feed them to the crabs.
They will not touch the salt in water, but in blood.