Laurette At The Window

He rearranged her
Like the bottles and the apples
And the vases;
The red and gold dress, the white blouse,
The turbans,
Eyes open, closed,
Hard, languid,
Her body erect, reclining,
Alone, leaning into another woman, softly,
The black lock of a question mark
Across her forehead,
The thing he sought at last emerging
When the arranging abated
And she drew the green robe around herself
And rested in his only welcoming chair

Ah, you,
Who bent the living to your will,
Who brought light out of darkness
By dint of using darkness to paint light,
Who danced in color and
Who sang in unremitting line,
Who watched, with omniscient constancy,
For the instant existing beyond
Any truth man can compose,
How can it be?
How can it be
You were denied the moment
When she strode to the casement window
Unposed, undraped,
And blandly looked across the roofs
As men below her gaped?