Sunlight shafts through the late primaveral air
As you stand, looking back, on the stair.
It lights in your hair on the perfect hair part
Where your skin has the whiteness of fish. It drowns
In the bronze of your face, in the pitch of your eyes,
Where glints and flashes of it dart below.
A triangle of it shines on your fortified bust.
A curve of it graces your buttocks supple and full.
A facet of it lies on your ankle bone
Whose delicate movements are mankind’s undoing.
You smile as if you could guess what Foggerson knows
And will not, for fear of spoiling the pose, declare:
That the pleats in your skirt will never need ironing,
That your bracelet bangles will jingle no more,
That the cashmere sweater over the good foundation
Will never come off again for any reason
Or show any signs of wear, that your natural teeth
In their natural box will never chatter or ta ...
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