La Belle Dame Sans Merci

First I googled her hair.  I hit
a starry night, honey and sardines packed in oil.

I googled her eyes: quicksilver, 
whirlpools, moons, proof of God, head-shops.

When I googled her smile,
one Proto Indo-European website,
illegible to modern minds,
wise beyond lovers' dreams.

While I was at it I googled her instep:
mangoes, asafoetida, even a lambchop.

And her breasts
in their oleo of moods: shy breasts,
fervent breasts, jokey, preening,
faux-tut-tutting, waves

of leaping salmon, gasps of breaching whales
a polevault's parabolic float, defibrillator outlets.

Then I googled her heart,
but Google came up empty
empty as a punch in the stomach,
Did you mean “hurt”?

Not thousand know it alls end to end, 
not Anima Mundi,
not the oracle,
not the Answer Man.

God Omniscient shrugged his bony shoulders
Not a thump, not a murmur.