Primrose Pardon, in her fine clothes, and her long braid.
Her soft eyes, coarsened by the sun, look for cool shade.
A smile from her, a kind word, my foolishness has paid.
I can light the star in her mind if my soul is now betrayed.
A rolling ecstasy, a hope for kisses, or to take a deep bow.
My heart and my desire and my head get into a hot row.
Can I have her tenderness, and remain clean somehow?
Is saintly pleasure and perfect affection a debased vow?
She is a refined and silken, and that braid a dragon’s tail.
To unfurl it like a flag at the end of watch, a storied veil.
To brush it out softly, one hundred times, as the open sail
To the shores I spurned by pouring out blood from The Grail.
I count her words, and weigh them for all their perfection.
I look away, smile, at her and the ground. A deist election
Of her wonder left to make a more heartfelt perfection.
These words, a hymn to brokenness, given in bashful affection.