all those empty rooms you used to paint I see now were your child



your painter's fingers



drew petals

from my flesh

to grace one



blue,

sun-mottled

bureau top



with ovarian

night lilies,



blue mist in your crying corner,



white light slanting in,

shadow-slat ceiling,

one bulb dangling

like a polyps,



a trace of Celine

breath



(mine)



animating

the chain



saw you in the dream again,



skin white as ever,

yellow hair pinned

tight,



parochial grin,

hard brown eyes,



your legs

a thin envelope,



such a sweet



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