whose hair is a highway, darkway,
alleyway leading me home.
Whose thoughts are mine and never

my own, another bonfire
gone loose in my brain.
Whose waist matters most to nip

and tuck, bottleneck of desire—
her waist the very wastrel
of daylong dedication.

The ankles of this Muse
are circled with silver egrets, her shoulders
slump to touch stars—

she whose wrist flaunts
a pulse of narcissus, whose fingertips
bloom a camellia’s lament.

Her mouth makes a footprint, a tulip,
a swan, whatever makes ready
to speak. Her teeth leave a woodcutter’s

rat-a-tat-tat on morning’s skin,
her tongue a smear of smoke and varnish,
garland and hallowed reed, she

whose eyelashes mime a thistleburr,
its shadow and salt. Whose eyebrows count
the numbers refusing equation.