Ataleia


Made of night as much as fire, she rises
and sighs. Lightly teases her dress
undistracted. To drown in her, a slice

of scripted departure. She turns and texts
an lol. Her innermost scent is plum. The moon
a great cat of an old lover. And as she

walking stares with eyes which see waves
tatter as wind and web and mind, she casts
a kiss, bites her lip and demurely proffers--

Error shines the blur that blinds the sure.
You do not care. Hereafter is disaster.