Classic Poem

The half-moons of her calves eclipse
each other prettily as she walks,
and something photometric trips
the triggers of her heels whose clacks

acclaim each sweet occlusion. She
is vain, is vain. So much the worse
for us: Her swansthroat under-knee,
her thigh, torso—an ‘ipse-verse’—

are hidden, but are all her thought,
as Carmelites, they say, in prayers
hold the far earth's meridians taut.
Her thought is vain, but so is theirs.

God knows we're doomed from that first peek
that makes us hunt the secret place,
Who wears such stars around His neck
and will not let us see His face.











Used by permission of author.