Locked in the castle of her brow,
a marble edifice, beautiful forever,
she struggles to turn thoughts into winks,
words into wine. Her eyes are framed
by the finest mink, her lips as sweet
as cocktail cherries. How will she
summon or beckon but by the luck
that luck will spy that perfect face?
How will she breathe through a nose
like a hazelnut, a piece of great price?
Still, it’s a sweet gilt-edged shelf
she sits upon, looking down.