No man could see her tresses
How beautiful they were
To the circumnavigations of the pedestal fan
Nor the cheeky hemispheres;
The curvature of her precise jawbones.
And through the gap in her face veil
You could find a woman in love – Irises painted
In henna, glittering like fields of barley,
Pupils dilated to the point of overspill
And carpets of rods and cones
Burning in crimson flames.
And a man who could only harvest
A little gaze, channeling through the beauty
That lay clothed. A little panorama gifted by a crack
On a cloth, and a woman, who one day
Promises to clip forever his elastic third eye
With the blade of her skin.