The cedar clash of orange grove and pine
as dawn-settled we in woven fineries finest
in temptation, were but the passed-close lips
going to taste in talk and tear-stain.
Still like of white lines, depth depressed
in tone of player piano keys
timed to the clacking chatter of
half-polished teeth and carpal sinew.
You paint in the cross-eyed shade
of grand elder oak facades, brittle
as communion cracker and twice as holy,
three times as bright as saints themselves.
Portraits had their frozen charms, reminder
of rush-rattled cage of clock faces,
when I had, in adolescent wish, to find
one day your curves and crossly shape
where there is now but stale air and moonlight.