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.