Heather Astarte

Skipping up to the porch

With her sly slink and swagger

Heather Astarte the sex termagant

Long etiolating light in the head

Lit up like a star shell

In the warmth of a fever

Such eyes when the shadows

Go over them crisp like

Ground glass in a blender

The soft stuff of her whispers

Her blouse pouted unbuttoned

Slid firm tip tilted

Copper gold glinting

The beautiful blank mock

That aborts all thought