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.