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…
11/07/2015
Durban