A momentary rustle of leaves;
as persuasion blossoms and fills the air
in endless ribbons of perfume,
as though an unseen presence
seizing one by the shoulders—
for the moon, is a cross between ominous
surely this cannot be a common episode,
a fleeting thing.
Lips as soft as butter; beg come and
explore the darkest colonnade of thoughts,
she is obstinate as virginia buttonweed
and lovelier in vision,
you can either be consumed or forged,
drown in the depths of melancholia
or indulge instead,
eyelashes fluttering against the cheekbones,
searching for confirmation in shyer regions;
they have an unusual tread.
And yet somehow one follows without sound,
having tasted sweet breath,
begin voyage with a shake of hand,
the night chuckles
as mistress perches upon the dead,
cobblestone roads burdened with memory
of both the willing
I wonder what words did she craft,
what erotic glimpse
and what promises she made in exchange
to satiate their minds.
Come shut those French windows,
lest one be metamorphosed to limb or bough,
motion and wit assault,
while trees outside are slaughtered in bud—
this all hallows eve, let us battle all that lures
refuse the arms of darkness,
no matter how melodious its song—
come let us be light as an old saying goes,
and though frost seduces the edge of petals
be reminded of spring
with conviction in a cup.
To this day, the world can hear her laughs.