Howard Grady Brown

[February 2005.]

One might imagine dust of jade on roses;
autumn mist paints the Attersee
a pallid China-blue of lyre songs,
pitched contralto.

Occidental notes
of flute and oboe gleam in gold and green.
Eve, as white as porcelain, applies
Danae’s blush to cheek.

With glowing harps,
stroked by virtuosos, Judith sings
of weary deltas, empire, and decline
in three-quarter time.

Vienna, bloom
and ash, embraces naked remnants; parts
that pose to shock with perfect imperfection
come to rest as thigh caresses thigh.

A hob-nailed host awaits the coming man.