Chiaroscuro Twilight
tracing the edges of her hourglass
curve, he imagines her eyes’ shadows
on oil and linseed…
wanting to be filled with neutral hues’ lines
as brushes smell of linoleum sky.
inside her navel is a garden and a river
waiting to be peeled, etched by strokes
washed in brown and grey waters
in a jar: he strokes milder through some
verdant splendor of one Eve still in the night.
easel sweating hands on bones’ canvas
gazing upon a display of creamy skin,
slowly being born from the marrow
an arrangement with chiaroscuro twilight…
but she’s just an image and he, a man.
For Brian's Choice 10
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