Wind Quartets
Marc Bolan
The wind quartet howls softly
My jeep hand strokes her necklace
Crusted, crammed with old Etruscan gold
Her bird head torn with summer
Inspects a Spartan runner
Robbing time a chosen Prince of Speed
My goblet drenched with Autumn
Tears for my dead cat Ena
Silver Surfer sorcerer of spray
She headed deep in chartreuse
A falcon glimpse of white teeth
Separated by lace cinnamon folds
We hid and rid in hansom
Cab wrenched from lost Byzantium