hair falling over
your face, your shoulders
like the approach of night
and eyes like the bright mile
of a shopping street
that mouth
where the rich people live
Georgian? Victorian?
maybe even a gambling house
behind a barely perceptible smile
some antique shops
sewn into the dress
windows full of point lace
china, pewter
but the breasts
like undeveloped land
beyond the last estate
and thigh forests
so thick that
even after one man's
been through them with his axe
nothing feels chopped down
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: John Grey. Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.
