By Candy Cain
Rarifying interests turn the boffin misanthropic.
Bedlam in the habits, gallows in the noggin.
Tragedy within the eyesight tends to keep her hostage
to the long night
With fire burning in the wake of more.
Learned to tie her shoes with skirts and sailors, learned from looking.
You can bring a rogue to knees, but she'll always find her footing.
You can toss her to the rear, but be sure to check your pockets,
Since her sexy saboteur silhouette slips in like lockpicks.
Grind your little axe, serrated curves won't contest hers.
Frame no fearful symmetry, her habitat inhabits her.
Tip-toe through the woods that weave her dancing web of branch and leaf,
Or rouse the eyes that round the stories of the forrest canopies.