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Poems


At Lunch, After a Visit to the Frick Collection


If you could see them from outside, your dreams
would look like the garments of angels ascending
in Renaissance paintings: long rich silks billowing
on mysterious updrafts, waving in unseen eddies of air,
tassled hems floating and fluttering, each fold perfectly
defined by the lost light of a fifteenth-century morning.

From outside, your dreams are gold and vermilion, or
an ultramarine of crushed lapis lazuli, or they shimmer
with the iridescence of angels' wings -- except dreams
of lust, which are the black of velvet, unfathomable,
like the busboy's beautiful eyes as you look into them.

 
New York, May 2000


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