She doesn't smile enough.
A brahmin told her it relaxes
capillaries 'round the head.
All day her eyes' clouded amber
turns down, shamed by daylight's
lack of restraint.
At a dinner-party her gaze is weighted
by unease and the inability to escape
daily travail.
In the bathroom a powder
ministers sufficient wonder.
Now her eyes shine like stars bathe in them.
The snowy bezeled ball makes her iris wax
with flecked flame.
Then her laughter is the euphony of pearls
raining on harps.
At home she caps the splendid eve...
fucking thorough as the deepest
Stax groove.
Dew rinses the magic down grated manholes.
Another morn awaits clad in clouded amber.
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