comes off messy
when it glows
from its post as
the trove of her hair—tangled
in the bearing
of all that she must know,
too highly regarded
to be tamed by a comb—
as she gazes
out from underneath
all that wealth without a care,
eyes less daydreaming
than floating, just above,
or possibly below
some effortless truth
about the nature
of allure
which you or I, being
cheap and human, would have
foolishly discarded.
