After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 130'
Her beauty seems now brighter than the Sun,
but I've been fooled before. Her lips are red,
more red than roses, her thighs when she runs
are the most sensual lines. Her angel's head
is covered with blonde curls, her skin is white
and softer than the clouds. To kiss her cheeks
and touch her unveiled shoulders, hold the light
and graceful bosom close. It's hard to speak
about her immutable glory, it's hard to know
the endlessness of her. She makes a sound
that is beyond a music, I start to go
into a trance, lose consciousness of ground
and sky. Her formal beauty is as rare
as an orchid blossom—just beyond compare.
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