Bare to the waist
she bends her neck
back like a bough
that’s golden—
in its hint that binds,
and wordlessly still opens
a Gate that leads you
out of this world and over
to its whole new side.
And the arm—she laid back
has blazed an extra path
all across her whitened flank.
And the shade that one faint lamp
rains and streams on this sight below
is what serves for a tailored cloak,
a mantle, a finger’s softly drawing in.
And the glee that’s triumphant and dancing
in the corner of her gleaming eye
goes to pin and seam with its
godly cursive made of rounded fonts
all this moment poured and distilled
on the gasping desert of your mind
so that the singing Phoenix of a poem
may turn in those flames to ashes
only to find there—in this posture cut
as jewel and as smooth as fresh and fluent,
his new body ending in the claws and beak.
And when all it is pondered, seen and written,
her splendor would stay and may stand timeless still.
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