She is looking and knows the pose,
\nthe drift of eye through skin. Her orchid
\nfalls. He paints its mouth, full of sex
\nand rust, soured from being kept
\nin water. A few knots of gold, her hair
\nopaque, a muted sound. The maid
\nknows these things: gardens rushing from
\nliving to rot, decay in the beams, the stems \u2013
\nevery gasp already gone. He turns fabric
\ninto flesh, neat ankles, crossed,
\nthe maid\u2019s arms, yesterday\u2019s
\nbloom, yesterday\u2019s sheets piled high
\nand white, the sky. She is not to move.
\nHe does not want her absence
\nin the portrait as a reminder; he begins
\nwith the body, unclassical nude.
\nHe begins with a cheaper garnet,
\nclouded fire. In his haste he doesn\u2019t
\nseize the light, fails in quickening
\nher eyes, voluptuous hue. The day
\ndarkens. He has only ever had his
\nhands and concave gaze. The women,
\ndimming from blinding; titanium
\nwhite. O Titian, O eggshell. Again
\nthe single room and vinegar
\nwine. He paints lilies, foxglove,
\nFreudian saga, pity in restraint. What
\nvelocities. Fine camelhair, redness.
\nThe day is lost. Outside the window,
\nthis is the time for small accidents:
\ngoing back to the foxtail, the night
\ncobbles, his fingers like ribbon
\nsearching for shadow, her neck.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Puerto Rico, September 2017<\/em><\/p>\n huddling here, shoulder to shoulder the lights in this vastness of the birds, taking back pollution, this dark night; strip-clean-searching out late people, without absolute power: the fear – of photons zooming out? what is this indexed another metaphor for the island, as they <\/p>\n in all the years just my body, MANET ET OLYMPIA She is looking and knows the pose, the drift of eye through skin. Her orchid falls. He paints its mouth, full of sex and rust, soured from being kept in water. A few knots of gold, her hair opaque, a muted sound. The maid knows these things: gardens rushing from living to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":257,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[351,353],"tags":[355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nout, every shape enough to look like an animal,
\nanimal-like enough to be confusing. each light out<\/p>\n
\nwind, rain, the dead trees of their houses awash
\nand no longer together, painted by torch,<\/p>\n
\nthrough the absolute water. sometimes a star calls,
\nsometimes they look. the people nest like<\/p>\n
\nthat all is gone: the greater fear; nothing
\naccomplished. who controls the lines<\/p>\n
\nand rational oil-splutter, electromagnetic
\nwave? real birds in their densities of feather, <\/p>\n
\nmove. closer and closer together. <\/p>\nVESPER<\/h5>\n
\nthe cells, the vessels, the gloopy
\ntubes of blood that separate
\nthe slow work of dying and this
\nnight. again evensong, again
\nlatinate blunders of breath-wind
\nrushing the pews. the hours
\nfall apart like skin underwater.
\ni can\u2019t remember my hands
\nexcept for its resurrection
\nof the throat, how the soprano
\nclicks her teeth in low, stately
\nrumbles on the imperative;
\nslow-hymn, synecdoche. but,
\nhere are the organ\u2019s pipes
\nlike my mouth. again and
\nagain they open, trilling winter to
\na finer diction. my thick, foreign
\ntongue, gnash-lipped, loosening
\nlike the ash of the dying trees, again.
\nrun like stars into the deep blind
\nhouses, over the hill: it begins,
\no lord. leave me to catch another. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"