A fox-shaped car rolls past
Fog-cozened gates. The zenith
lays its mysteries bare
In black and white: the butler,
The turret, the damp mist from
The river, the pomander of cloves
And oranges. When the mistress
Of the house comes in, stripping
Her gloves like an impertinent skin,
Her sere mouth ready to insult
Whomever she sees over her shoulder,
I can see the knife already, the eyes
Behind it soft as flowers,
Stamens nodding with a silvery glint.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
