it is not
the flower
caressing
her ribs
it is not
the vinous
stain on
her lips
how they
blossom
smile and
wilt
it is not
her nails
emerald
cerulean
crimson
or jade
it is not
her bracelets
or anklets
of wind
bright as
the sun
balanced on
her hips
it is not
the feathers
or wings
of her hair
or the waterfall
of sequins
pouring from
her breasts
it is not
her arms
or legs
incarnadine
serpents
it is not
the crowd
or their brazen
ululations
it is not
the howls
of master
or servant
it is
the veil
that will not
be lifted
in the spiral
arcade
of her
dance