There’s a portrait on my wall.
long unblended strokes,
like the savagery circling that golden calf,
done up in hues of green and blue.
how many have I written poems about,
my fancy flitting to-and-fro?
I am blue only in the dead parts of me,
deep-dead-black in the lips and eyes,
and skin bathed in deep jealous green.
is it vain to think the way she sees me is beautiful,
even if–even if– even if…
and how many stories do they have of me?
There’s a portrait on my wall,
and I wish, I wish, I could see them all.
