she paints a yellow sky
what a strange place you live in, where the storm clouds
are invisible, & the sun endures itself as the rain falls from
a blue sky. you tell me that the big raindrops glow with a
fiery piece of the sun’s heart; you absorb the mystic beauty
of it, & you think of me. (each drop that lands on your face
is my kiss). you describe this odd fantastique to me, & I
write it in verses – & perhaps I have stolen your poem.
when you are drenched, come into the back room with the rain
in your hair & wet kisses on your cheeks, & I will love you among
your paints. let your damp clothes fall, to arouse me with your
nakedness. stay wet, because this thing we do is meant to be wet.
I’m a revenant of wicked intentions & obscure, demented justice.
I find my kismet only in the flowering of your arms & the spreading
of your legs. this is our lust & our torment, clandestine & sinful.
only the rain knows our secret.
I take you, in the timid shadows of your acrylics, & you possess me
tightly, until the torrid rivers of my loins cascade inside you.
…when you open your eyes & depart your reverie, your fingers
moist & splendourous, you must paint the lonely, austere beauty
of the sun showers that incarcerated you.
let art & the rain be your lovers
if you need to be tenderly ravaged
and I am not there…