On the evening canvas and its rushing chill
the woman’s deeply displayed chest stood
in the quiet as a blank verse rummaging
around for a rhyme to ring and seal it all.
As if the ache of that missing link could have
delivered the waited-for ease and its solemn
proclamation—by which beauty and its art
would win at last a deserved admiration—
And the return, repeat, charming rhyme,
seemingly somehow mislaid—sadly gone,
overlooked or inappropriately ignored,
would have filled and fallen in that open blank
that haunts the score that should toll and chant
a work of love—concocted out of forty winks.
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