Her wrist was a bridge,
b’tween wiles and wild
her eyes were a dusky door
of her throat, I once wrote, but can’t easily quote
and now I write her no more.
Her wrist was a bridge,
b’tween wiles and wild
her eyes were a dusky door
of her throat, I once wrote, but can’t easily quote
and now I write her no more.
Damn good.
Different every time I read it.
Rock on!