jemima kirke is my queen

Gentle, gentle my queen.
My eyes had not get used to it,
to the bright, to the light of

You, golden ray,
red rush of light,
so free as the waves themselves.

Show me your traces,
the color of your skin,
and the glitter of your speak.

My queen, please be gentle.
My eyes are yet to get used to it;
the glow of your cover,
the light in your words,
those bright blue stars of yours.
Gentle, gentle, my queen.

—  To Jemima. nc.