Julianne of Norwich, julienne of leeks,
Is that our range of options here below?
To haunt the cloud where pure Enigma speaks
Words so occult they leave the night aglow?
Or to bonne-bouche it? Napery! Cuisine!
Diamonds on warm fingers by our own
Languid on stemware, tilted wine between
Blossomy kisses, and then—then!—fullblown
Rumplings of bedded pleasure. How compare
Norwich and leeks? Soul, body? Yet the two
In intimacy mingle. Though somewhat spare
In others, their very plenitude’s in you,
My Julianne-julienne. Your body’s droll
Gala mélange! What setting for a soul!
—John Frederick Nims
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 11 Number 4, on page 37
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