Bathing at the Museum
Casablanca lilies, sandbag mammaries —
what have you to do
with me?
Angels announce among flowers,
the monk’s miniature carnations exquisitely
foregrounded.
There is no red
but the red of the deep
of the body.
Penitence is an unlikely fate
yet churches everywhere: incomprehensible
but for the rationality of tithes.
Like Bonnard’s wife
incessantly I bathe, sensations of liquid
intervening between mind
& body, blurring animosities.
In dim flux the mind begins to lift,
words shimmer,
jewel-hued in their tissues.
Wreckage of gold leaf
flecks the curving walls, a flying lightness
levitates us toward the high-glazed
halls of disbelief & art,
of heaven.
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