Isaiah

The varnished oak hair was lit

by the dim sour lemon lamplight

lining her rich clay penumbra

with a golden stitch upon the night.

Her ashen-lacquered skin blazed brighter,

rosy white as the mackerel's underside

with the touch of the velvet linen

across her smooth chalk tender hide

but when the boldly callous night

stole this art from the lemon glow,

I could have cursed the night forever

for making this raging bairn my woe.