PAULA GRENSIDE
he told me naked breasts were doors to gardens,
and amber nipples, bells to ring or buds to pick
for muse discreet, disguised in pallid skin.
He told me how he could then write his love
and living lines on bare thighs' layers
of tangled wilderness where lyrics jumped like deer.
He would then versify on ripeness
of roly-poly ass, gold-glowed sliced melon.
Alas, he turned to painting. On worn out
canvas, I rest in faded still-life form.
Poem, © 2000, PAULA GRENSIDE
(all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
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