the
head is glowing, the face follows, I submit to spirit. your hair is healthy,
fine linen, luxurious pain—synthesized in divine oils. eyes are made of honey,
glorious frustration, deliberate in observation. your mouth is pure, delicate,
receiving atmosphere, essence, feeling decent in weather. the nose is chiseled,
maybe Picasso, maybe Mona Lisa, maybe I imagine in what I see. rioting porcelain,
teeth made of liquid paint, I have issues with description—maybe diamonds,
gems, provoking self-consciousness. I hear your ears, they play drums, at
moments, they become cellos. so strong the cheekbone, such heritage aforetime,
unveiling aristocracy. to need chaos, to wither in calmness, a kiss in weather.
those muscular, deluxe arms, the field of opalescence, caged in routines—made fierce,
lifting existence, crazy wild with skies. to touch hands, exquisite fingers,
racing as they chase esoteria. legs by infinity. feet remain with a subtle resistance—at
knees born for upright exhaustion. lips invite lust, with minds racing to
polished elbows, if but to dwell on manicured breasts—a back made in Egypt, or
Israel, or a space deep in Europe; such refined hips, it doesn’t show, this age
of bearing offspring. so much more than a body, its parts, or ankles unbruised,
or upper parts with evidence—the light of the vacuum, those cliffs, I leap, at
a dear museum.
