on such a face of interest,
a pleasure,
my poison, man of craggy countenance.
Oh face! Like a map of ribald scars
each leading to sonnet danger tales,
idle creases in collusion with fear shy bones;
Lincoln of the People
a triumph in a land of ages.
Bow thy solemn head
and shake those bats in hoods
under a heavy brow.
A structure future perfect
maddening the timeless printworks.
Magik ending in a K
as your bottom lip nods apologetically
to your castle of A,
Merica
Braham,
silent letters missing
off to fill the liberty spirits...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
