Miss W

She moved in grey and black across the floor

And seemed compounded of both silk and sex.

Her thighs beneath the satin whispered, ‘More,’

Which sounded most like prayers — or slinky hex.

While all the other women evanesced

To less than vanished sweat, above her arch

Her ankle turned with loveliness unguessed

Until that moment in the goosestep march

Of time. It was as if the world were just

A disco’s glitter ball in Plato’s cave,

While she was that Ideal left undiscussed

By odourless philosophers and grave.

She swayed, a swing of beauty from the plane

Of absolutes, beyond the realm of stain.