and hold it up to her face,
simple shadow play
as the dancer Salome wed
to the idea of my head on ice
like the Baptist or Antoinette.
She could drop all seven shrouds
on a visit through the underworld;
but, she shuns my comedy.
She rips the cloth in two and swears
my demise is imminent, but not yet.
She covers me with lace
and plods through deep dark myths with army boots.
She lacks imagination. She's heavy.
Then, she lies like snow on leaves in the south,
a lightness that melts before morning's out.