360
DOROTHY
II
HER HAIR
Her hair
is a tent
held down by two pegs—
ears, very likely—
where two gypsies—
lips, dull folk call them—
read your soul away:
one promising something,
the other one stealing it.
If the pegs would let go—
why is it they're hidden?—
and the tent
blow away—drop away—
like a wig—or a nest—
maybe
you'd escape
paying coin
to gypsies—
maybe—
III
HER HANDS
Blue veins
of morning glories—
blue veins
of clouds—
blue veins
bring deep-toned silence
after a storm.
White horns
of morning glories—
white flutes
of clouds—
sextettes hold silence fast,
cup it for aye.
