Fixed on the smoky agate of her eye,

We are embarred and blankly watching.

Gone finally is the thing that paces,

First from blood, then from merely pacing.

Glare, which takes us in a blur of tawny

And a shadow-zebra of bars,

Past your misty mask of yellow

Thinly simmering a ruse,

Past embers of dermis lemon,

Beyond incremental pools

Of hot transitional chartreuse ...

Into a deep, deep smouldering lagoon,

Round and full of green and dying moons

And spiral echoes of jungle afternoons.