Poets Are Magic Beings

She sits within the Magic Lantern
- that facsimile for pleasure,
decor of wineskins where
at $2.50 a garment
extravagance comes extra;
skin like rosy flames
the whisk of smoke
at hearthside
sunlight about her face.
Cherubs arise from those lips
and battle lines are drawn
about the sweet curvature of her breasts.
A tight cashmere sweater rides
comfortably two of the finest King's
deer headstrong thru Sherwood Forest.
And, Merry Man,
firmly planted in Lincoln Green,
the plodding turf growing at odds within my soul -
give this brief to the Sheriff at Buckingham;
I cool my heels, the soft doe lies prostrate at my feet.
She's loveliness,
hair drawn as curtains
signalling the clouds,
eyes that beckon twin doves
to flight, in swift passage, like the arrows.