Thoughts of a Woman in a Black Dress in the Park
She was sitting, cradled in the shadow
of the trunk, intently reading a book,
coiled into herself like a shell, as
if somehow she was less vulnerable
in tightly curved space, all rounded and orbed.
The light was dancing wild, glistening,
a raw eagerness in the air between
the branches of the naked tree, a veil
of expectancy hanging in the time
where space and form pooled into substance.
She was draped in flowing black linen that
weaved cautiously down. She seemed
indifferent to the fact that it was there;
creating the illusion that she was exposed
yet covered in a warmly magical glow.
In the autumn blush, I had the clear
notion that she could not be concealed
by material things, but I also
suspected that seeing her raw, naked,
would pass doubt on everything that I knew.
I felt myself melt, slipping into her,
rooting around the inside of her body
probing for furtive clue; for anything
that could show me how I could forget
that I had chanced to see her whole.