Justine by the Mirror Composed

The blur of morning sun born on brick

spectrums the glazed window wick

white sheets entangled in afterglow,

the ruptured casement ripped

the temple column rift

the law of beauty will be rewrit

the poet proffers new testament

a romantic twist spontaneous

autumn frost on slippery sediment.
The early hour scolds.
I climb her stairs with muted steps.
I come before the temple door.
It opens and her world unfolds.

I look about the room to attest

who she is and where she went.
Heat flows from a dusty vent;
my aperture helps pay her rent.

A bible, pitcher, an emptied vase
a candle holder made of brass
a Giverny poster by Claude Monet;
gita, guitar, nightgown on the floor.

A dressing mirror against the wall.
A kitchen, bedroom, and a bath;
she is old enough to do her math.
I place twelve tens new and folded.
Camera or pen will seize the moment.

She bends the light and opens space
crossing to the kitchen sink.
She pours minted tea;
asks if milk and honey
are right for me.
In avenue and street-talk jive,
she asks how she should move and be alive
gentile or frisky au naturel.
She will decide which side to offer.
Either side my verse to capture.
The sounds of dawn, the light and shadow
will play upon and direct her.

She lights a candle in the nude
blows it out, flickers, then explodes
across her brow an arch of gold.
She nods and tilts a sidewards glance
Thread and weave, a thin hold and grip
is all we have to sustain our dance.
This is her world and all that's in it
to queen her one cathedral minute.

The unfinished spruce table lists

its grain and knots a lacquered face

touched by her brown fingertips.

The room sways and gives way

to the overflow of her dark blooms.

Rump and flank and teasing loin

fountain whispers I strain to own.

Cordovan courtyard of the moon;

I focus in to bring her closer.

She drapes a sheet across one shoulder,

stands before the mirror flume;

light and shadow a warming swoon.

Her fleece an uncut brackish sea.

A ticklish seaweed monsy map
svelte-like honeycombed and waxed.
She turns to disguise the frontal view
lifts her arm around her neck;
lifts her head, gives me her back.

From each corner of the room
the old oak rafters moan.

Music plays from an upstairs floor.

Someone is rustling atop the stairs

footsteps dawn on morning moon.

She models, listens, drinks, and follows

her neighbor must be an early riser.

She puts down her cup, smiles and swallows

without complaint accepts the hour

soon the breaking sun will end our time.

I clench in search of hurried rhyme.

From the morning light and shadow

Justine emerges spirit matter.

She faces east inhales the ocean

and from the ocean ten generations

embarked upon a diaspora.

She cracked the shell of history,

and lit the lamp of her mystery.
Staged amongst the stucco faces,
there amongst them she is measured.

Baker, Dandridge, and Lena Horne

midwife themselves each time they're born.

An eye to paint,

saccadic movements too quick to catch
a hand to sculpt, a knee to trace

amazed and partnered in dancing grace

pallet and brush primed on rhyme

bard and model ballet timed

a seam geometrically defined
revelation denied, so much neglected

white-washed curves to be rejected.

A flash, a scent, a turn untried

street lights dim and feign surprise

object and purpose in argument

a half-plied screw untested.

Am I in the favor of the muse

to web the color of the mood?

Am I so bold to fly the dome;

and amend her electric architecture?

G clef lines and unstrummed notes

the air will brush her undercoat

her adagio body's yellow fire

deflects the smoke of her staccato.

Minors and majors tuned together,

razed, vested, sanded and collected

the poet's lyre a stain glass mirror.

A conduit wire, the conductor's baton

await upon her intermezzo.

Teapot steam incenses air

mimics musk and violet petals on the chair.

My appetite envies its wooden palate.

Forgive me once that I'm distracted.

On foot and knee she dresses warmer

maroon wool leggings from her collection;

withdraws one leg, extends the other

the window absent her reflection

no lifted eye will select her

or swell a tide to collect her.

She eclipses my eyes in long refrain

and stretches out like porous leather.

A cool fall morning interrupted

the sound of motion from the sill

a pigeon taps the window glaze

a gray stranger seeking shelter.

We pause to share our laughter.

He dismisses the magic of the cantor

surprises the moment's metaphor.

I miss a stroke, he regains his balance.

Justine answers his feral call

lifts the pane before he falls.

Chimes ring treble; prayer flags flutter

held to the sill by a braided tether.

The bird sheds a loose-leaf feather.

I regain Blake's symmetrical tiger

margin a note to gain composure.

Justine gives back the rhythm and the clock.

She taps, keeps the pace.

No master of orbs or grand designer

could sully Justine's silhouette;

divest with rouge, accent drift,

or canvassed artifice.

I turn her page then revise.

The eye is fixed and stately still

each riff and gulf and bend and curve

reaches the quick and core

of art's blithe nerve.

She drapes an October blanket

from her waist; covers her eternalness

a modest proposal for an apologist

who sits to sculpt in words her ampleness.

The gods of verse taunt my recklessness

to bring her fire like Prometheus

before the world's openness.

Hawks should pierce and open flesh

to dare in verse what the camera missed.

She stands above the bottom view

before her high windowsill.

The world awaits her imagery

conquered by its drapery.

She poses a parade of flesh,

bronze brazened delicate,

a full-plum chest.

Her purple shadow moves

across the room

to light the corner hue

in amber showers overdue.

She turns to lift her secret cup

her hands roll white, a buttercup

sheen and bare as Rodin hands

soft and fertile as alluvial sand.

Her lips like spoons to sup and hint

a smile, a kiss, a pursing glimpse.

On the back of her arm I place my lip

her faint blush sparks rebirth;

forgives me once my off approach

and graces the subtle universe.

She hides from me her private heart

breathless soon to depart

a full wane moon, the morning sky

orange and blue hides nightly stars.

A lose of parts a moment more

to fashion and reassemble her.

I wrestle words to express

meadow blue curvature redressed

and return the night her preeminence.

I bury my uncrowned head into her ribs.

She knows what I seek will be missed.

She disappears with each failing breath

One last chance I undrape her crest

to taste in her smell, her blessedness

Forlorn am I she's de-witched her spell,

Failed have I to take her beauty by the neck,

and give earth back its holiness.

I had a dream once of pearls

and black satin dust

and from the dust the pearls did rain

sweet nectar

down upon white lace and frame

godlike yet profane

I was baptized by the nectar dust.

And once the dust had cleared my eyes

struck blind was I by the overtone

until at last I denounced my sin

and colorblind I could see again.