Wind Quartets
MARC BOLAN
The wind quartet howls softly
My jeep hand strokes her necklace
Crusted, crammed with old Etruscan gold.
Her bird head torn with summer
Inspects a Spartan runner
Robbing time a chosen Prince of Speed
My goblet drenched with Autumn
Tears for my dead cat Ena
Silver Surfer sorcerer of spray.
She headed deep in chartreuse
A falcon glimpse of white teeth
Separated by lace cinnamon folds.
We hid and rid in hansom
Cab wrenched from lost Byzantium
Lordlett who once held the earth In chains
