Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now--- The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled, like Blake's, Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark--- The scald scar of water, The nude Verdigris of the condor. I am red meat. His beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He tells me how badly I photograph. He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple Frill at the neck, Then the flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns, Then two little feet. He does not smile or smoke. The other does that, His hair long and plausive. Bastard Masturbating a glitter, He wants to be loved. I do not stir. The frost makes a flower, The dew makes a star, The dead bell, The dead bell. Somebody's done for.