Vines spread, woven with skulls of the time sorceress.
The obscure moonlight braille crystallizes on thousand-year-old paper.
The Isle of the Immortals recedes into the distance,
Surging up in the clouds of sperm whale dreams.
The soft peach is blushing with shyness,
Drawing men to coolly examine their dangerous cravings.
Rene Magritte, lingering in Brussels,
Is in his flat stuffing a sour apple into the blackness of an old bowler hat.
Loving obsession, penetrating time and space,
Vines spread, woven with beads of skulls.
Blue and amber in the dark light,
Orchids the color of water-lilies form a lace on the skin of the enchantress.
The back of Ingres’ Odalisque is long and sleek,
The fan in her hand is marked by a bleak, autumnal ink, the plumbs fall from the tree.
A maiden’s sigh, a fragment of poetry, a shattered jade pendant,
Your grief in the plumb purple of your irises.
Coral like a fountain of blood,
A butterfly tattooed on a body floats over prose from the Six Dynasties.
Her dress is so fair and white,
Her lips like that murky blue amber light.