She was a graceful thing

She was a graceful thing
who did not mind my eye
on her skin – or hands – a
song for her – alone – see
her way among old men?

I could descry it all online
[as she slept with lovers]/
Her remains curl – I find a
red hair – twine – threads
waiting to sew torn verse

[ripping-offs – of bairds &
singers]/ Over airwaves a
renowned poet mutters –
whilst I find inspiration in
lost lemans/ Spin her hair

into an endless throw – a
covering under which we
can hide from each look –
her threads of silky word-
play turns others to acrid