Poets Are Magic Beings

She sits within the Magic Lantern          - that facsimile for pleasure,         decor of wineskins where         at $2.50 a garment         extravagance comes extra;         skin like rosy flames         the whisk of smoke         at hearthside         sunlight about her face.         Cherubs arise from those lips         and battle lines are drawn         about the sweet curvature of her breasts.         A tight cashmere sweater rides         comfortably two of the finest King's         deer headstrong thru Sherwood Forest.         And, Merry Man,         firmly planted in Lincoln Green,         the plodding turf growing at odds within my soul -         give this brief to the Sheriff at Buckingham;         I cool my heels, the soft doe lies prostrate at my feet.         She's loveliness,         hair drawn as curtains         signalling the clouds,         eyes that beckon twin doves         to flight, in swift passage, like the arrows.