Scene
in some disarray,
its unfortunate
furnishing, the eye
in its studied
indifference.
Someone’s pawned
vases, upright, still
unbroken.
A cheap brown bench,
chipped. Portrait
of a room dominated
by subterranean
tones, unearthed. Here,
the cloth, crumpled,
as yet unstained. The table,
again, the bare
suggestion of chair,
of legs,
of seat. Unconscionable
turquoise, restless
on the pillow. I, too,
turn my face,
turn to muted
blue, almost lost
in bunched cloth.
Diminished
blue, retreating
to the underside
of thigh, fugitive
as childhood—what
of that? Gaze
seeking the buried
eye, evading
its disrobing. The
most penetrative
vision falters before
those lids, sealed
to prying.
Whatever
is behind the looking
away, the mind
finds its own,
open, bloom.
