Emily Dickinson

twist your head
in either direction and the nose
remains in alignment
with the toes
your eyes
in that curious face
seem to revolve around
a skeletal space
of lips fat
above a dimpled chin
where hair grows,
whiskers your sardonic grin
the green dress
supports your shoulder
thin and bony
growing older
in your pencil-thin hand
the black distinguished book
borrowed from your mind
a clear inquiring look
cleverly in focus
lifes' postcard
in your unfenced unfettered
very public back yard
where your good eye
slowly stood
apparently alone
as though it could
completely see me
just now
and perceptively
somehow
through all eternity
verbally scheme:
what did it mean,
Emily? Emily?