Some Practice

[RiverNotch]

O shape,
O two buttermilk columns fallen on a footstool,
O skirt of fertile clay about their base,
O azure day,
O breasts and collarbones and neck just beyond the frame,
O voice that warps the senses like the desert heat warps light,
O five argent arrowheads poisoned with desire,
O palm spared swaying in the wind,
O wrist,
O smoke of the morning bushfire,
O words the vanished sparks of steel striking steel,
O the red traces of love cooked to black jelly,
O you blonde victrix whose brow is proudly raised,
feed the dingoes with my charred remains.