Wednesday, September 12, 2012

line dance

I Posed For Matisse

He uncoils me slowly like a skein of yarn
paying out a beat behind his eyes,
worn panes of beach glass that scour
the days remaining for feeble sifted light

drawing his hand along like a merry piper
through winding Hamlin streets,
unruly fingers confounded by buttons
hale and nimble once again fat

graphite rolled and balanced grip loose
and brash floating just above an empty ballroom
floor to strains of a silent waltz
fancied played in some distant place

while my skin pools in goose flesh my
bobbin spun free of thread hip, breasts and neck
described in a perfect dearth of line, 
God struck mute as I slip demurely behind the screen.

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