she slid through the sackcloth 
like a silkworm 
gracing the sweet softness 
of aching movement 
of slender shaved legs 
and her hair was blessed 
with a kink 
golden brown
fresh 
clean 
like the liking 
to a week old kitten
her hands were 
sweet perfumes 
penetrating the dermis 
with intent on making man smile 
without reason 
but her eyes were darted and gray 
uneasy to my own sights 
yet her scent 
the vitality of her ways
made me a bit greater than a man with common sight
her lack was no metaphor needed 
for this iteration
I give you
in fact 
my eyes are now driblets for hawks 
carrion for foolish men 
who seem to eat 
with their eyes
I am blind 
and so happy to confess 
to all of the noisy permutations 
of ogling formalities
proud beings 
with tearless eyes