Hey, I've been in the car for 9 hours, with no access to a computer, and socializing nonstop between awakening and ignition, so be gentle.
They say she wrapped a shawl of blue
around her white raiment, tinted perfection,
hid her bushels. No one knows how
she kept her skin an alabaster chamber
as she pruned the hollyhocks
in the June sun.
How the heat must have burned her,
drawn the moisture from her! Yet those
thousand sonnets she pressed in her books
lost all their juice,
her flowers curled their fingers on the vine,
her skin collapsed.
Under the moon
the moths of her town
are the fattest in the world,
barely airborne, faintly azure,
rising from some web of wool.