Finite Features

Bill Morgal

they are not wrinkles,

they are not dimples.

they are cubes.

the hue of the skin is not

normal: this maiden’s flesh

is a crude mixture of

blue, grey, black,

and bronze.

her look has run from past conventions,

and her youth has hid in the corner.

vitality has left town, leaving plenty of

room for squares.

yet if a being of such symmetry

appears to be an aged,

disfigured wreck,

just look at the eyes,

where diamonds

reflect the

beauty lying inside.