The light would turn her body into art,
a field of color, seething blues and blacks
that seem to jump from canvas. I put frames
around my works, put words around her form
by voicing them. I put my lips up to
her breast and take it in, I start to dream
about a Desdemona, start to dream
about touching her body. The light paints
the fields and pastures with a yellow hue
that changes every dawn. I want to move
the color over wide space, want to move
a brush across her hip. I have to see
the way horizons rise and fall, the way
the luminaries rotate in her movements.
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