Arrayed in only dancing, like Astaire
Across the stage, except for soft-soled bucks
And soft-brimmed hat, he elegantly plucks
With looks one certain member watching there
Whose mouth's an open gate that savoir faire
Escaped unnoticed in those shifting shucks
Which sinewed muscles slid beneath the flux
Of sweat-sheened skin with sprezzatura flair.
What business is it of ours what happened next --
The captured eye, the question-cock of head,
The nod, the glanced-at doorway, all the text
Intention torsions through an eye or flexed
Oblique extensor -- meaning clearly read
By each to each in all that's left unsaid.
My strength is as the strength of eight --
My heart is nearly pure.
Last edited by Marcus Bales : 12-17-2006 at 11:01 PM.
Reason: Forgot to put in the topic for the next one.