The blossoming heart starts out a riddle,
chambers reimagined by the moment,
mirror to mirror, bride in the middle
fussing with her auburn hair, caged eyes pent,
like some sun goddess teasing strands of fire,
weaving fantasies like Lady Shalott,
her throw-rugs of historical desire
piled high like flapjacks, scenes that time forgot.
O so much work for the rose, newly freed,
in fresh attire, attar's sweet pungency --
ghost smoke in the nave -- clamped by tango teeth
that ends with a risk-it-all lunge-and-see.
When the lady's bad acid trip wore off,
she was sixty-four, and she had a cough.
