Monday, April 25, 2016

The Spell

A grown man would dream
on that restless blouse
and her eyes serenely drawn
for more than a reply.
But really, it was the mad, pale skin.

Oh not empty, but bursting full, the girl'd
come and go, sometimes go,
then come back again.

In Reno her blood approved
of a guitarist acquainted with the blues.
She allowed him soothing,
and beauty's milk flowed
into the hither regions,
and he the graceful touch of confident fame
received.

Oh, how did it go?
Beauty collects memories of tempestuous times:
she met again a certain saxophonist
back in Memphis
whom she'd known
of a school girl's nights.

Then coming home
from a long hitch on the road,
it was she her husband accused.
Swollen with luck,
his blue guitar discreetly blessed,
how could he test her,
the receiver of her surrender?

That broke the spell.
Carefree, she abandoned him,
traveled to Italy
studied art and human sexuality.

She still rides horses,
married again,
her pictures make money,
she vows to live an eccentric southern lady.

But when she's alone,
thoughts of a boy in rags,
whose splendor was in his eyes,
come back,
and her heart's quick turn
rustles like leaves of an August night.

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