She

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She
 
Like a wine swollen grape,
the noon air swelled
            with a light, so ripe
that day’s yellow bowl
            of still brilliance, 
sagged heavy in the swollen glare.
 
Until her beauty
            sliced the stagnant light
            on a gaze
            she burned so brightly
that  every air-borne spirit
fled its fiery turmoil
            and in the glare of day
                        her razor beauty with a slice
                        gave us all a glimpse of night
                                    and we made way.
 
For in her finest hour
when in full her beauty
            mounts its flower
her inflorescent gaze
brings us to our knees.
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