I rested in front of the umber and ocher Picasso
unfocusing my eyes, till a rounded breast like a little
crest of the sea came up before me and I saw
the barely held in thighs and the bag from Bonwit’s
rustling beside them; in a red and white gauzy dress
she stood for a moment and absorbed Picasso.
My lungs filled up with glue; unwieldy
notions like packages teetered before me, and then—
What passage in my life, what corridor
warming with sunken treasure sealed again
as she receded through the gallery and I
sat on with leaden thighs but with a high
sense of occasion and an eye just made
for every umber and ocher’s slightest shade?
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