Sometimes sheathed in sheer silk, and sometimes bare,
her tiny feet are never quite concealed
beneath long hems of skirts she likes to wear
(colors muted, designed for modesty),
as she sits in Lord Byron's study, writing
(and he, who wanted her, feels her shy slighting
of him in preference of her poet's love).
Word by word, punctuated with just dashes,
the tale approaches her---sometimes in flashes;
sometimes slower---as each page has revealed
that June dream she recalls so hauntedly.
Delight asserts its pleasure, line by line,
keeping her moods always a cut above
frustration while creating Frankenstein.
Starward
[*/+/^]