I kept Dalí on the wall. The labyrinthine tresses of a brunette girl,

in the white and blue dress, surrounded by curtains and a seaside window; 

the Hallucinogenic Toreador above me, in an arena moonlighting 

as Pallas Athena, and sometimes a dandy dressed 9 to 5 in bloody red ascots, green ties.

Painting is irresistible, the confiture of sweet colors classical, and our grey modern times.  

But then a shining point in Picasso’s drab Guernica sent the room into sotto voce at first,

a distant, Doppler wailing bomb approaching breakneck to a roar before impact

made me a multitude. You know me piecemeal, never plainly, like the lightbulb in the room.

Your shirt on my bed, borrowed from your father, young woman; collar still starched

a window arched into your heart, my affection. You looked good in drag, white buttons,

white sleeves, and the tails were brushes against your naked legs. 

Now the shirt is on my bed. It doesn’t know where it’s been. But it will be there later

for breakfast. I speak with my voices to you, because I cannot be direct. 

To speak openly with you would be my death.