She is a wine flower--
She has drooped into sleep, softly snoring;
She does this to herself every evening.
Her back is tanned and beautiful--
With a little mole like a leopard spot;
Her hair is long flames from burning love letters
She'll never write again;
Her hair is light through a slatted window,
When she's gone back to where she's been.
I do this to myself every evening--
Puzzling out the fortunes I am reading
In her golden hair and skin.