she

As the poet said,
The brightness of Mars and Venus are in her eyes,
under the fringe of her black hair which is night.
Her face is the fulness of the moon, and her fingers
are slender celery sticks, disporting themselves languidly.
To see her dial a phone with those fingers
is truly a gift to the worthy.
The gleam of her skin is as the glitter of coffers of gold and silver and rubies and a jacinth and carnival tickets and free nights and weekends.
To the exhalations of her breath is as batshit the smells of musk and ambergris.
Her lips are slices of blood tangerine
Her skin the skin of a purple grape, as is her cellphone skin.
I am excessively caught up about her cellphone
because I am on a midden heap if she does not call me!