Man could say, it was tempting.
Your starched white cotton shirt,
One button missing; vanished by
The force of your flesh,
By the tap of the heart-shaped
Heart. You think it's cliche, and
You swore off love.
What can man say; that it was fair in temptation?
That man can justify how
Blood from your brow could be
Vulgar in a way only your beauty is.
The mirror relished its view
Of you, the flame,
An enchantment of a dance,
A tortured audience;
All we saw were
Your eyes.
(How twisted, one said,
Behind, a woman: Oh, but he was beautiful.)
Your limbs limbs limbs
How twisted, one said,
Look at the bone in the sun.
Erratic and utterly charged with an
Inexplicable art.
They should hang, I'd say, from the palace of yours
A testament to the currents of where
The paint splattered dead wash themselves,
Where you made your haven.
Your hands; shiver shudder press,
Eucalyptus.
Knees, kneel, need
A knuckle to knock.
Keep me from joining
Your wretched troupe of your limbs and nothing more
Than nothing more.
