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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.