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She is there, on the grass, in the light of a book.
The sun makes each blade an image
Of her life, a pale, green, florid thing
To live by, a loneliness, just outside of peril.
The library behind her: bricks of passion.
Delicate and disbosomed, she is peeled-down
Purpose, like air and clouds above her head,
And trinkums, on each soft page, absorbed by her eyes,
No closer to Acheron than dense paragraphs.
Bugs are evicted from her legs,
Like plucky storms, whipping over calves.
Her skirt slides up and, modestly, she tugs
At frayed corners, the corners like the world,
Drab and worn. There is more to her and more
To the bright ground which is proud to have her.
O incautious weekend, the people grip
Frailty, as it lays itself on every single mind,
As it is the woman itself, in the grass,
Yet in the bold eyes of sunshine and sky.
Personalities surround her, in the end.
Lamont Palmer
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