Her paintings are sundays in the dark: inspiration
by a poet with literal depression.
What brings you here, to the ruins of an old woman's body?
Cherry on a tree spreads
insects through her palms.
Mosses and equations crack
through her ankles and up her teal skirt.
Water is by far the best for sketching
but torched bones minister to the pleasures of nihilism.
Floating her knees aside dragonflies,
does she deserve this new music?
Only a few bold fellows penetrate my algorithms.
Passing from rooms with a haunt of attrition.
Oh, don't think such a lady tried that flowering, plumbed part of him.
You be sure to die a peaceful color.
Cherry dies a peace you can smell.
Floating brighter, head seated low, the trees
creep in from the inside. To our young girl:
burning alone & round the carpet. How is
your body downstairs?