Some Feast

No couturier

with access to silk

factories could wrap the

most exotic model in the world

so ravishingly and in so many shades

of grey as this November dawn's smoking

arrival veils the floral crescent of an unseen

but anticipated sun. It simply takes your breath away.

Like watching someone beautiful undress, although in

this case it's the dress that counts. The world's

old ills and bruises are next to naked

now: branches have lost almost all

camouflage and the salesman

of hills pitches obsolete

standards without

decor.

If, in

the sun-stunned

bowl of first light,

the visible sky is the under- _

surface of a woman's chin-its color,

I mean, when pearls are nearby-then my

house and I are ideas parked in the back of

her mind, awaiting an appropriate time to be thought.

But when great beauty nods to you on a cold morning in a

dull month, you are too thrilled to look around

to see if a mistake's been made; exceptional

opportunities must be seized despite time

and the lady's fickleness. Bare-

footed and weak-kneed, I

feel like dinner at

some feast.