It is not only
the globe
of her vitreous breast,
nor the flashing cubist
mirror within.
Nor is it the presence
of four score suitors
locked forever in her eyes,
inmates in this blind
Versailles of love.
Nor is it the residual
spectral fire
on tiled ceiling, parquet floor,
the firefly carousel
she prisms as she
turns.
Nor is it the
limpid hollows
of her tapered
wrists,
deltaic, streaming
with apparent veins
through which
a needle floats,
unhindered.
Nor is the bone-
smooth throat
of her transparent
sex, unloosened
by the champagne thrust
of passion,
what makes her love
as visible as tremored,
temperate air.
She grips with
glass perfection,
lets drop
one tear of snow.
One sees the world,
looking through her.