Venus and the Organ Player

When I think of great blondes in history,
Your face is among them.
And so I persist, I play.
Look! my fingers on the keyboard
Do your bidding;
Polymorphous music agitates the air,
Billowing the shimmering veil.
Your icon, candle-gilded and smoked,
Glimmers in my heart’s gloom,
Where John the Baptist, roaming
The desert, suckles on honeycomb.
Your presence is a memory of Venice,
Stone and water reflecting one another,
Blown glass mimicking lace
In fiery filigree, a comet’s tail.
The painter’s sable brush adores
Your empirie, pirouetting in time
With that fey smile, that silhouette
Of serendipity or malicious fate.
When I think of great blondes in history…
No, alas, there is only you,
Only you to confess to,
And hymn with harmonies and sighs.