Offer Delicate, behind a glassy pane There is beauty, on the one hand, dancing Pretty as a ballerina in a box Behind that window, guarded by a chain And a sign proclaiming: SOLD Twirling light, and soft, and slow, and chancing None to pick the locks Made to admire, but still never meant to hold. But with it, adding weight To the offer in the balance drags The bottom-crawling rise of blood that, having risen, flags And sleeps a while, until the drive and twitch That it must sate Rouse the steaming brute anew To slaughter and devour its pleasure. Here beside the ballerina on the balance, which Begins to groan and tilt The thick blood sags. And added yet thereto: A husk of burnt-out passion lately thrown in for good measure. And therewith is the offer built. David DeBoe