when she dines in, she lets the moon do all the work
and feathers slither by, with so many charms decanted in the jasmine apocalypse
to swoon forever like an uncorked boy.
the marmalade is never dainty.
the air is mostly a cotton barge of intangible voyeurs
as intimate as a private thought.
her lace clings to the bead of sweat that twinks besotted
and time prevails upon Beauty with a lewd choir of Sleep.
as she dangles from an ecstasy
phalanges Etcetera.