These pink chrysalid faces
devoid of anything so atavistic as whiskers
flame evenly beneath felt hats—
abash'd torches in the daylight.

Intent on solemn inanities
they maintain a torpid demeanour.

Until night finally falls
when stript of their drab or tinsel sheaths
they ape Narcissus in mildewed mirrors
display their graces to the sick glare of gas-jets
and on rococo quilts
get corybantic for a while.