Plucking on the Cord of the Neckline’s Slip

The interval (閒) is a chord,
a chord of the neckline’s slip;
there, by the rivière, turn by turn,
a serpentine flash might seem to sleep.

Or some reedy dragon with a licking flame
on the chest of leavened leaves, with breath
not unlike those buoyant pavilions of old
alighting and leaning on the lustrous lakes,

in the guise of somewhat boozy papillons,
but with manners and a genius for verse
that pluck a glint of shades from breeze.

Isn’t this how they gather our heads
and, once they do — they’d hold
and ponder — this hoard on their lap?