Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:La_Ghirlandata-face.jpg
The lady’s eyes are an ember of green. Would she take any comfort remembering vanished dews? Would she care for a draught of this liquor distilled from cobweb and moon? Will she bite off love’s brief words with her tiny fox teeth? Is she parched for the skeletal clatter of lunar rain? I wonder if she feels I should decipher the angular pitch of the chamber where she dreams of a house with many faces like a crystal. Shall we review the erotics of a mournful bassoon? the network of eternity that howls in the nerves? the black dazzle of a pool rippled by a slain magnolia at midnight? Perhaps she will recall the ghosts that crackled in her hair when she shattered the bowl of dawn, the sinews of wild colts that sang on the mountain in the dawn, the lone hyacinth that crumbled under her hand in the mist of dawn. I wonder if the milk of her breasts is the milk of adders, or if the flint of her ecstasy chips the cherried enamel from the basin of her smoldering trance. Or perhaps she'd prefer to yield the meteor of her exhaustion to the black sky of night. --------------------------------------------------- Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings. A random comment on poetry in general: A poet should resist the irresistible temptation to preach.
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