A prettiness that was plain beauty

till the flowering season wilted.

But it didn’t matter

that your skin grew parched

and stretched and tanned

and pounced and quilted

by the sunray pleat of wrinkles.

If there was room for flounces or a gem

a turn of lace, a froth of sequinned flair

a dotting of French knots on

skin, a surface brown and bare,

for a splash of gold and crystal

every hued

rainbow stain upon the crepey chest

that shadowed under.

From where bubbled

the fag corrupted voice

as low as August thunder.