As Joana plucks the asparagus
up on the hills near by
the gathers of her rufous
dress collecting Sun up high.
Whether her eyes quickly perceive
or slower her step it goes,
her misty eyes will not be deceived
by the shy asparagus that rose.
I watch her neck, long, long neck
but white Moons in wells at night,
I shiver by Joana's peck
the one she'll give or one she might...
Her hands, but sparrows in circle flight
over piano keys white and black,
and so the music shrinks to naught
before the beauty she flushes back.
Her flaxen hair resembles hues
and sage honey scent in the air
of the late Summer afternoon blues.
Yes, that sweet Joana's hair.
The flaxen hair dances the fairy
dance, among this green, the tender lust
and her lips resembling cherry
must have turned the prayers to dust
for all the pains her lovers carved,
and the broken wings she licked
her breasts by now but starve
for the crimson love of hickey_
less, gentle tongue she ranges
by throat, by words and fathomless
depth, and transforms and changes
all the hues if any darkened place
in you she d find. Perhaps the lace
I wear would be soothing thought for her
her nights I d calm with mine
my secrets with ones of Joana gal
shall here on hill entwine.