The formalist would put you in a suit.

He would knot the tie so tight

around your tiny little neck,

that you would strangle to death.


The romantic would demand that you disrobed,

down to your silken stockings,

so that he could describe you walking

in all your splendor through the dusk air.


And then there is the Victorian,

who would worry more how Fra Pandolf’s hands

worked at the canvas of your throat

than how his ink depicted your dress.


Only chance would place him side by side

with Prufrock though, who would sooner put you

in a gas mask than a marriage gown,

so that they could ponder the sea together.


Yet who am I but another suitor

come to parade you across the palace floor—

for a minute. Another to curl the strands of your hair

over your ears and whisper sweet nothings to you.



Hello there!


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