Far from Grim
He has a wayward symmetry, not right
Like Christ’s, this hair a harmful Rupert Brooke’s.
The marble-like complexion gathers light,
Transluscent, pure, too beautiful for books.
The faintness and the flawlessness of skin
Stretched firmly over manly flesh and bone
Assures us, even God, that there’s no sin
That this young one’s perfection could not hone
To poetry or even epic love.
His quite perturbing nose disturbs his lips.
No. No. It’s just my heart moves like a dove
Heaved up by wind and suffers pangs and flips.
..His head falls, nodding, above fairytales
….And all else in the library’s dim pales.