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

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