Eyes of green bottleglass and amber,

not gems faceted but true

stare acutely at dotted marks

on field and of blue,

while silver moonlight hair and skin

of sweet ice cream are dim and fade

in bright noon and midnight.


Thin strands weave tight,

nocked in her tales of splendor

and her whispers of her sight.

Her lips are honeydew,

sweet of taste but pure and tart

of word and voice

in her clarity and truth.


(I am your wife,

if you will marry me.

If not, I'll die your maid.

To be your fellow you may deny me,

but I'll be your servant,

whether you will or no.)


Pinot noir utter her lips,

is only for the women

that wear this shade of ruby

on brazen cheek to be kissed

by fair lovers of gentle,

thorough femininity.

She sips it with tenderness.


Two months have surpassed us both,

and yearning for emotion,

we lean on one another

in theater dark silence.

She lifts my hand to light pink,

delicate flowered lips.

I could weep for my pure joy.


A spit of a comment hits,

and it does not stick quite right,

but singes acidicly.

My lungs are burning brightly,

white hot char that they would dare,

dare in their weak mockery,

lay a finger on my love.


(O, Wonder!

How many goodly creatures there are here!

How beauteous mankind is!

O, brave new world,

that has such people in it!)


Summer passed, but still I feel

thin moonlight in bleached grey grass.

I ponder what it all means,

to feel this my inner peace.

It is as if lullaby,

slow and whispering came fast

to soothe a weary lover.


We are below a shade tree.

The morning dew has traced her,

a faint sheen of sweat from night

and the humid air outside.

She is a morning goddess,

though denying to sleep,

for she only wants to dream.


(then in dreaming,

the clouds methought

would open and show riches,

ready to drop upon me,

that when I waked,

I cried to dream again.)


We walk two worlds between us.

Soft mutters and loud laughter,

gentle caresses of hands,

jewels and bottles of perfumes.

Spacious between us apart,

wary of watching eyes whose

subtle judgement we recieve.


Yet my darling, precious girl

with bottleglass amber eyes,

pinot noir whispers and truths,

petal lips and lily skin,

still my wayward paramour,

stays companion beside me,

to ends of the night and sea.


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