On a famous rococo canvas, a pretty lady swings
in a Cupid’s roll that drives her through the air high
between a plentitude and feast of splendid shades
and a plethora of lifts through the garden’s lights.
Oh, isn’t love made of light and dark like a page,
speaking black on white through its coils and curls
when aptly spread—just as off her revealed toes
flies her slipper cast and diced to try this one hap
between feathers of a dizzy flight and the fetters
that seek to catch and fetch her merry coasting hind
while the chosen lover gulps the privilege of sight
that sways and slings over him ajar as he lies down
on the ground in the bushes of her purlieu’s privet
where aglow the saluted lark coos and bills in turn?
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