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in its gilded frame

                                                                                  beheld the body’s greeneries                    something
              

                lovely:

                                                                  a
                face of leisure

                                                                  a
                leaning
                in                                    the
                neck’s question
              
              

                nothing more

                                                                                  than a slung shoulder

                                                                  a slipped stem into                                a gilded vase

                                                                                                                                          an unstrung bodice

              

              

                                                                                                                                                                  would it be
              
              

                                the lady or the thread

                                                                  tucking itself into                       a stretching fog
              
              

                                                                  throating out a call

                                              or reply

                                                                                                                                          it’s a lovely thing
              
              

                to be the mirror

                                to be the lady

              
              

                                                                                                                             & with the neck in repose

                                                                                                            what’s the throat to do
              
              
Abi Pollokoff is our Poet in Residence for February.

Previously: To live in ignorance is exactly what, The sea thinks beyond itself, and Urban planning when prayers for the body aren’t enough