Blue smoke curling azure tenacity
At her fingertips a foretold lingering light shift
To darken the room (I assume) or to loosen
Like some grifter the consciousness from below,
Plying desperado-like in rhythmic modes
Softly seducing the air to curve about
In smoky ghosts before eyes that cannot
Believe themselves to have fashioned a truth
From spectral promise.
© Celeste Plowden 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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