Her Forehead the Moon
The shoelaces untie,
they've been caught by the kitten's eye.
She touches, hesitantly, with her paw,
the lace that rests long on the slope, raw,
to the cool breeze of Mid-January;
next to a window that reveals Her sanctuary.
The sun dresses the top limbs of a tree; its lower bare curves are the hue of a cocktail skirt, with a ripped seam,
that is halfway in the woven bamboo hamper;
that was worn by the church- less Cantor..
and the pine needles
that poke the evening..
they, in sun-light, had the tints of the moss
that recline on the splashed, carved rocks
of a Late Summer Shore.
Now, within the room there is more...
the clutter of a confident craziness
on a wooden scratched glossiness,
upon which belligerently rest, near the kitten's maw,
the chewed 1% spandex blouse, and robicund bra-
they are a tossed sunset over the edge..of Mayan Skies..
mountainous thrusts; Dusk's sleepy eyes.
The books that have begun to be read,
are upon the charcoal foam of her bed.
This portrait is etched within the walls the hue of yellow skin,
exhaustively painted again and again, and again.
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