BELLE DAME SANS MERCI - ROUND 2
Her face was medieval queen
rectangled in cathedral, exact hair
ovaling a scimitar of smile; a moment
of eyebrows, invented for the occasion.
In chair of no repose we signed
our space like cats. Staccato eyes
repeated all my bones for future use
where sisters and brothers complicate the earth.
Later in bed we interlaced our skins,
imagining each other. Plural lips
explored the ooze of apertures, each nerve
a separate white twitch of lightning.
Morn woke me solo cold, her folded
paper flower of maidening a memory,
the music of her breath upon my skin
the faint far heartbeat of a tambourine.