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.