In The Crowd Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Imperfection at the sport of angels
All a wonder downed at the bottomed angles
At the circus,
Like racehorses beneath the midgets sunbathing to
The clouds—
Perfection in their hubris, and rosy bottles
To their lips
While flies whisper of carnal and feral love:
That is their perfection,
A two week’s bliss of I love you’s and candied
Apples
And then to move on amidst the crowd
Of sinister confections and saintly business—
Another quarter in their pockets,
Their lover another stranger in the crowd.