My red skirt gives
Not a fig about gravity,
Is easily engaged
By any fugacious
Corner wind, most treacherous in exposing
White winter legs to the burning
Hands of the sky’s Don Giovanni.
Still
I cannot resist
The firm hold of my waist,
The flirty passage
Of linen on the inside
Of my thighs; that slight
Rub not too innocently
Soft. I forgive
Perpetually anew.
I pose no danger to worms
As I sleep through sunrise and thunderstorms.
Rising I brush the thorns from my hair,
Put rose petals in my underwear,
Conjure bronze suns that bleed
Around and into the seeds
Of my apples. Cheeks I lightly stain
With apricot from H. Rubinstein.
I anoint each inch of hide;
It glistens as it swiftly glides
Into the cover of my cloak.
I know how the fire is stoked.
Beauty, though ephemeral and vain,
Caused the Baptist’s head to be slain.
Tool in hand I connect
Through time the dots
Of events in space, of people’s faces,
My freckles and bruises. Still no trace
Of patterns, nor a hint of when
Or where the drawing will
Unveil the distinction between
Outside and inside. I am still
A messy maze, a vague outline, mostly void,
Quite pale indeed.
Breathing, eating, I grow
Three-dimensional, incorporate
Another atom, another building block,
Constructing slowly a sculpture of sand,
Willfully ignoring
Time and tide.
