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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