Cupid fell into olive swelter in unnamed aromas 
that led his dogs to you, making clear    
 
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare =  
a blast furnace getting head.   
 
Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street, permitted 
yards outside where people pass by in walk-on parts.   
 
One doesn’t know any more  
if there are good times or bad ahead of war.