Wootton, Sue: Tryst

She leans several angles at once, is all planes of Picasso,

tilting.  How will she stand, her six-sided shins,

her five-walled thighs? How will she talk, one lip a cylinder

and one a box? Her tongue is a skewed guitar;

her three unblinking eyes dropped bombs, falling. He

is a handsome proportion of blue, was mixed on a Matisse palette

and is gaze upon gaze from his frame a window

onto all astoundingness, such blue truth. So he comes to her

who is all quaked scaffolding, shifted. Like sapphire,

cobalt ink, like tide, like midnight over Lapland in July,

like withheld rain is how he comes to her, and takes

her fractured fingers in his blue kiss. Now they spend their small hours

in the waterlilies, wading from one end of the triptych to the other, through

blurred and purpled Monet-water, setting the cerises rocking, rocking.