I held Beauty in my Hand that odd Night
Her small sandaled Feet, eggshell Breasts, slight Hips
Her delicate Hands, slender Fingers right
For holding Hands, touching my Face and Lips
Her broken Accent, ancient Music sent
By some Tyrant, an aura of Timbrels
Her Nose pierced, Waves of Orient descent
Tawny, brown Eyes, the clamor of Cymbals
My Ballerina on a Music Box
Round our Conversation, indifferent led
To the Neon, Bar Stools, the patient Walk
Gen*, It’s not your Fault; it’s Mine, I descend
To the twisting twirling Trance: To love; Be loved.
Until the still Music, made her another.
*short of genie from a bottle