South Kensington

You whose beauty pierces.

Whose glances spark with irritable purpose,

And thoughts, sword shards that jar

Under a skin of night red roses.

You who wears the hide of a wolf.

Whose looks access a lover's cowardice,

Who swallows her intelligences,

Issues her sex in warring confidence.

You whose eyes catch a stolen hope

Between the pincers of your perceptions,

Who freezes with green dilated ice,

The insolence of my trespasses.