For Freida Calho

Oh Freida who is fingering your shroud? I can hear you coming, crossing the old mansion’s tower and can see your dark braided hair with feathers, your perfume drifting past and settling on uncut flowers. But before I embrace your form, I want to see with eyes full of flint the draperies and naked bodies in perpetual chiaroscuro. Flirting with your pigments, I want to dab violet on the face of mist, gore sorrow with a riot of crimson-scarlet and fling viridian on the face of earth to be fresh again. Believe me I do not care how you handle your brush or whether unknown empires rise in your canvas or knights and plebeians cross swords on deserted beach. I just want your blushing glow and whisk the Dark Angel into first light.