Stone cut and pretty eyed
Like someone out of the Sunflower Sutra
And as damning as a right angle,
She’s watching the advance of the parade
From a sea of parasol lovers
Though she herself not para sol
But rather por sol and I wouldn’t dare
Confuse those two around her mother,
A hawk with a mouth full of mouse meat
The color of a split pomegranate.
In accordance with the style al fresco
She averts her eyes from the course of my stare,
Climbing out of sight to her heavenly home,
Which is decorated with black and white
Photographs and silverware from abroad
With which she might part her lips,
But don’t take my word for it
As I’ve only been there once.
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