The Beguiled



Ms. Coppola loves a gauzy haze
A curtain, a smoke cloud, a bit of lace.
She loves a girl on the cusp
Of knowing what she's doing
And a man, a bullet, a mix up. 

Her camera loves the light
Dappled on Mr. Farrell's skin
A drip of sweat, a gasp, a hint of a bite
On a lip quivering, indecipherable. 

She loves a blonde
(And so it seems does he)
A crisp white collar, sad eyes, pearls donned.

She courts contrast, 
Blood on a white dress,
A sly grimace,
Power ideally kept helpless.