On Viewing Juan Gris’s Flowers and Fancying a Drink

Amber motifs would fit us well,
autumn, the Ballets Russes.
We comprehend la lune de miel
that comes before vermouth.

The scattergun reproach, the strain
for calm amidst the wreck,
your apricot guitars have deigned
to arch a layman’s neck.

We know no better luck downstream.
Crow’s feet crammed in a pipe.
The auburn dipsomania.
The gentle-gone goodnight.