You’d rather see the wind through her hair
Than through the flag of your native land.
Her head has made yardbirds of haberdashers &
Haberdashers of the yardbirds.
Her eyes (& this might take a couple tries)
Her eyes with their lids & lashes
Are flightless birds
All the more enamored of each other
For being forever separated by her
Nose. Her green eyes
Mean there’s no mistaking their implicit yes.
Her slightly crooked teeth say
Symmetry’s overrated anyway.
Endangered species are her hands, her lips
Are worth your wild.
If her brastrap slips
Her shoulder smiles
While the elbow skin of my woman
Is sandpaper worn out
In removing the horror from my horoscope.
For shipwrecked cheeks.
She’s got the poise & posture
Of an abandoned lighthouse.
Her trim ankles rankle the tranquil
-ity of Main Street,
The Royal Cobbler has traced her feet...
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Comments about this poem (Ashley Effictio by David Rowe )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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