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DOROTHY
I
HER EYES
Her eyes hold black whips—
dart of a whip
lashing, nay, flicking,
nay, merely caressing
the hide of a heart—
and a broncho tears through canyons—
walls reverberating,
sluggish streams
shaken to rapids and torrents,
storm destroying
silence and solitude!
Her eyes throw black lariats—
one for his head,
one for his heels—
and the beast lies vanquished—
walls still,
streams still,
except for a tarn,
or is it a pool,
or is it a whirlpool
twitching with memory?
