A turnstile, gates unopened.
Legs wide shut,
fused in slender depiction
to the fertile fields.
Fertile flowers connected
with unmatched reverie
to the sun-droplets,
the fires in the spaces untouched,
most unexplored.
Eyes
for a time in wanderlust.
Romance, scattering the scarlet dust
towards a lost entrance.
Arms for the form,
the concealment to the one
too artful to be everyone’s feast.
Wide and entertaining.
Loving and bewildering.
Switch the sun off.
Let the moon come loose
with the vision of apples within a dress,
the breasts to a dark caress.
The eyes that scar
for rings of Saturn’s engagement.
Sorrow that tears
to the tears with the weight of history.
Modern Romanticism 