White canvas. Layers of brief washes,
spare brushwork. Sun's rays
spotlight a girl, soft petal hands lying
in her lap, feet in a stream.
Enter the frame to join her.
Watch her lattice her fingers in her lap. Dream.
Some expressive beauty
(not like a well-turned beam
is beautiful, nor like you are beautiful,
but beautiful as the daze
of nature's chlorophyll dynamos)
hovers about the cliches
of her indistinctly rendered mouth,
cleft of thighs, pubic maze.
The artist gave her ampersands, ellipses,
subtle women's winning ways.
Sitting quietly's unbearable; you insist
on conversation. The gallery teems
with tourists in anoraks.
They leave aluminum wrappers at her feet.
Their eyes appraise,
smooth as half-drunk cream.
Her hands flutter over her body, playing
a guessing game with their gaze.