[Fruit, Alphonse Mucha, 1897]
I think of him, who allows me into his thought time,
brings me to a clean clear image in another life.
It is determined, it must be this way.
Things become one thing, stay a little while and then become another
for no reason. Change needs no reason for being change.
And I am not mother or lover and so cannot demand one anyway.
I fill this time as I always have constructing intricate decorations
of blood-red garnets, sky-deep opals. Christmas tinsels.
He talks of my milk-naked flesh cut
beneath the weight of decor.
Once again, I feel hope. I have felt this before.
A hope that never catches what it claws,
that keeps falling again and again. Then
forgets, reshapes, recurs.
One more stupid round.