Tank-Top

I was playing sonatas on your skin -         no beauty & the beast scenario         though the Tower pulchritude was intact         with enough purple agape grape leaves         and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve         with wind wet at the windows         (and later the willows),         where gravelly, cloven hooves became party         to my thoughts; for you,         blessed with a triangular patch,          - and something like strawberry -         lay moist & woven into strict tapestry         like a mantle covering         abrupt oasis of skin         (the better to peer in).         I scaled the heights         not castle vaults, mind you,         but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent         of a white charger -         fierce visor in place          - armour gleaming -         a sabre rattling at my side         be-jewelled & twinkling         the key clinking         there, to corner distance         (time & space)         dragons to be dirked and slain.         Fiery eye, forked tails         donut-sized scales         plastered as a calendar         or shingler might a tiled roof          - the empty spell         Bellerophon spying his Lady in a belfry         on driving home.