As a prelude to Goya
I walk through these vines
As sure as sweet is wet
As his Maja is here now
What was given is not as important as what was
Withheld; Cassandra’s torch lit that room greatly
I was deliciously tied back
And I was, I was done to
A chord of my favorite song
To accompany the hemlock
To live in Van Gogh’s ear,
I cut off my hair. And I would have given
My toes, one at a quiet time, and I would
Have given my fingers and my eyes
And my my
You took good care of those strands.
I didn’t find them in the street in
Front of my window.
You were a good little matchstick
And it was my body grasped that sill
And I held onto it real good
Didn’t I?
