Tank-Top
By Paul Cameron Brown
I was playing sonatas on your skin -
no beauty & the beast scenario
though the Tower pulchritude was intact
with enough purple agape grape leaves
and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve
with wind wet at the windows
(and later the willows),
where gravelly, cloven hooves became party
to my thoughts; for you,
blessed with a triangular patch,
- and something like strawberry -
lay moist & woven into strict tapestry
like a mantle covering
abrupt oasis of skin
(the better to peer in).
I scaled the heights
not castle vaults, mind you,
but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent
of a white charger -
fierce visor in place
- armour gleaming -
a sabre rattling at my side
be-jewelled & twinkling
the key clinking
there, to corner distance
(time & space)
dragons to be dirked and slain.
Fiery eye, forked tails
donut-sized scales
plastered as a calendar
or shingler might a tiled roof
- the empty spell
Bellerophon spying his Lady in a belfry
on driving home.