Roberto Coutiño Albores
in Kensington Gardens
His eyes are beautiful, the pupils brown
With flecks of heaven’s upland meadows set
Inside each circlet. They are heaven come
To shine in quiet glory. Both are met
With blindess: people passing them go blind,
Like silence made by overwhelming chords.
His hair is beautiful. Its spirals wind
Divinity across his head. The lords
Of high Olympus bow their brows
In deference to loveliness of black,
Which whorls into warmth. Tight swirls arouse
The gods to love. Their godly hearts go slack.
Since he is broad of brow, and tall, and slim,
As young and ancient as a pagan hymn.