He thinks of her as still
life, a celadon bowl filled with ripe
colors, not some mythic female
balancing
a sky, though she was vast
at first, clotted with monumental
blues, and his eyes passed over her
like clouds.
So he’s given her a hint of cantaloupe
chin, a grin of shadow
like a joke; he’s stroked her
underarm stems in starkly,
boldly. Maybe tomorrow
he’ll pose pears, a tilted
harem of them, but she’ll be
free: vanished
except for the flesh-
trace she’s left like dense
pollen under his brush.
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