cleft

She has a cleft chin 
where some angel swung 
an adorable ax like the crack
of a bell, and it sprang back at once, 
shot off like a gun. Wrenched free
from both hands to how far we've come
flying off down to hell, where
- who knows? It lands. With 
the womb where she hung suspended
rung well, the angel stepped back 
to regard its work. "That'll do 
just-so, she'll grow into it." Indeed 
she has, and her looks quite swell
to the point one feels quite full.
One could spill anything like a jerk,
and she'd reach out and re-right
the angle with deft aplomb and grace, 
and goodwill. But it's something
quite else that she has. In her look.
An igniting bomb. 
Active and seeking, receptive and took.
It could knock coming thoughts
out the back of your mind, leaving you
to rewrite them all in nick-time.
Without any script left to guide
your tongue! There's always that cleft 
in your cloven mind. You can go by
the shape that she leaves behind,
read it through like a book you 
have read before, with things 
jumping out at you new, galore
to find. Just about every time 
your mind falls into and through 
that look of hers leaves you struck,
and smote. And blind. What a bind
to find selves in. Anyway, these are only
effects we make. We hope. Anyhow, 
it is only some cause of ours, and fine.
Or quite fair and just. Let's grasp 
and uphold it before it takes shape, 
and trust to the sense we always make. 
You and me, well-met in some wanderlust. 
Well what could we do with some summing
some something of us?