Her perfume lags behind,
turns masculine minds
She adds just enough dip and sway
to her relaxed sashay, refuses to turn
to see who sees.
Her walk is a shape poem, visual art
without abstraction, metaphor, or simile.
It is a divinity of simplicity,
making boorish Bukowski stammer,
“Alas, what angel are you that hath passed
just by?” Alas, indeed!
Her walk has power enough
to straighten Whitman into a wolf-whistle
and Ginsberg into a howl.
Boston Literary Magazine - Summer 2013