My lovely swan, to whom do you petulantly gaze,
Elegantly craning your milky neck just out of sight?
Or do you pose for the painter, brushes on pallet
Oozing spirited sex and sass in the casual clasp,
The table’s edge between a thumb and forefinger?

Black satin ensconced fingers of a soft left hand
Grasp the falling black sash, ebony on steely night.
Who’s there off sight that your shoulders pull back
Flaunt your perfect posture, taut in practiced ease?
Turned out, not up, your nose points us the way.

Is it your fragrance, some Paris perfume you sniff
To flare the nares so regally as if scent sculpted you
From birth, the way your pretty pout folds into a chin
Equally sharp as the peaked nose round arced brows.
I adore the flashes in auburn lit hair swept into updo.

The sun would have streaked you strawberry blonde
Had you graced it with your presence, though clearly
Pale skin that would appear ghostly on another moon
Reflects embarrassed by its dusty light comparatively.
How I’d rest my chin in the curvature of those chains.

A hand I’d rest at the crease of your gown, just above
The impossibly narrow circumference of your waist,
A circle flowering thick bosom and hips begging me
Take notice: a crafted sexuality seething underneath
Discretely teased, in rich chocolate grace and ease.