The iris dilates lazily to give
range for the light he observes.
She advances by design to leave
a margin about the troubled grave.
It will overwhelm him to resolve
the frayed shapes apparently alive
declining as inconsolable waves.
How once he woke willfully to shove
her form about the canvas, to serve
her body at the threshold of doves:
writhing, squirming, moaning, heaving
as if the holy ghost were proved.
But now her figure opens, a curve
swells as her soft frame forgives
his indiscretion, and finally removes
what previously made him not believe.
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