snapshot of the corner of a kitchen table,
swathed in lace,
and grandmother's china and grandmother's silver
laid neatly and carefully,
and a pear.
(there is a reason why i don't like still life paintings.)
snapshot of the corner of the bed,
clothes and bedding pushed together elsewhere,
dim afternoon dawn
sneaking through blinded windows
and our skin overlaid
like mondrian, like cubism, like portraiture.
sometimes mona lisa shows up
in the corners of your mouth,
sometimes marilyn
as represented by dali
in the heat of the moment:
all red lips, all bright space, all heavy breathing.
we are a gallery all to ourselves,
you and i:
a cornucopia of bright and shining expressions
and the challenge of keeping those images
in the mind,
once the picture has faded.