The only certain thing is that she’s young.
Or is she? Pull away the veil of hair
blurring the edges of her eyes. Defer
for a moment the fringe of coverlet that hangs
self-consciously across her pelvic wings,
the strap a primper tugged down from her shoulder.
Try to return her uninflected stare
persuading you, This is where I belong.
There is no elsewhere. Paisley; worn divan;
hydrangeas; satin cushions in a row;
for backdrop, two black cloths that won’t quite join:
eternal props of an artist’s studio.
The dapple of her skin through stocking thread—
skyscraper lights no one had dreamed of yet.
