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