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