Whenever she writes, she goes there,

(the trellis hung with wisteria vine)

ink blooms onto vellum before her

she tangos with the nib of her pen-

smooth lines, like rolling waves

kiss the shore of the page,

calligraphy borne of her marrow-

she transfuses plasma to pad.

Stains of blood run with malachite,

and she is no earthly being

ethereal, her tears paint the paper,

saltless and sweet as spring rain.

Her words, when they come, are voluptuous,

fat with beauty, so free,

they curve like stars cast from heaven

smashing to notebook inflamed.

She sets strange infernos with prose-

her poems linger, like ash

on sylph breeze.

I bask in the flow of her poetry

the matrix of couplet and verb,

and enticing, she lures me to ponder

the coconut call of her song.





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