Tuesday night pleases itself with lustres of
Pink-perfumed raiment, loosened and spread out
Across the lintels of the hill.
The ground is fertile for poets and gentle talkers.
And flowers add a bogus wreath in one soul to
A somewhat disconsolate necropolis.
To give light and fecund breath to this lace,
Her eyes pierce the webs of previous gloom.
She opens her heart and bleeds profusely,
Her spirit and goodness welcoming the air to
The base of the pulpit.
And she sings feebly, nursing my patience
Towards deep gazes.
And the world is lifted with her smiles and the
whited seeds of teeth fencing a coral tongue
And the aroma of each song blends with the youth
between us . . . .
Oh, her eyes!
The pith of a wholesome serenade.
Her warm naivety heats the pillars of the cold
Clouds, and as she dances feebly, the ground
Beneath us keeps vigil
With the astuteness of Tuesday.