Young Woman

So we have a face Cupped by tender insolences, Half repenting insolences Teasing their own angers. Then, a tense exuberance Brushes them away And burns a humbly erect Queen upon her face. This happens in the space Between a frown and indecision. Her face becomes forlornly wild, And a beggarly impatience Hovers into furtive shame. All the supplely intricate flame Vanishes, and leaves no mark. Her eyes are violently dark With a hopeless waiting; Her lips are isolated tatters-- All that is left of shattered recreating. Then, as quickly as she fled, The humble queen returns. Staring and unappeased She eyes her crumpled hands.