Body's Perfect

No body’s perfect, save thine

dressed in blood, and wrapped about the head

by shawl of silk. “Impostor of the Lord,” they label you,

“daemonic beauty, pool of honeyed milk

to drown great Men!” If you were cold and stark

like twilight, then, perhaps, I might just leave

to Be. But all my flesh is wreathed in dark,

and hot flames lick and kiss your earthly feet…