The almondine corner of your eye

slides elegantly into

the bridge of your nose.

Your hair, if released from

its sensitive pony-tail guy manacle,

would display its natural wave.

You are as fair as any of those

Kell characters –

Not Jesus exactly, (there’s not

near that much charity in you),

but Matthew maybe.

Your eyes are as soul-less

as a monk’s pen can make them –

all that chastity pooling in the irises,

in the straight-on, judicial stare.