The whirring of machines, the clip of shears,
        is like a dialogue of angry Fates
        frustrated by rcurring resurrections.
        But never fear:  the Fates will be appeased.
                         XXX
        Rows of drousy men attend lullabies
        of tonsorial gossip hummed by droning bees.
        Mirrors for all vanities, in front and rear,
        are peeked at by aging Adonises
        who behold their diminished splendor
        in infinite echoes of the eye.
                "Magic mirrors on the wall,
                 Who was most handsome of us all?"
                         XXX
        They rouse in panic to pursue themselves,
        still aproned, down luminous hall of time,
        till finally all light is shuttered out
        as in the shadowed deepness of the sea.

                        "NEXT!"

        And the impatient Sisters cackle gleefully.

        April 12, 1971