A Deist Election

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.

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