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I went to view the galleries
And I left with a woman on my arm
Who some painters used to see—
Will this do some harm
That she is now with me?
I don’t paint. I write poetry.
Now the painters talk.
I get to kiss her silently.
I view her eyes in various light
Of days’ moods dying into moody lights at night,
But her eyes have their own light
If day drowns us, or beautiful night.
Her eyes don’t need to look at me. But they might.
The length and shape of her produces delight.
The painters never get her beauty right,
Not understanding perspective or the light
Which drops in shadows on the long days
Of love’s torture, to sweeten our gaze,
Loving love in the umber haze.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
