She paints a red horizon,
on my wrist and says, "Do not worry
the yolked sun will softly shine again."
And my eyes full-moon,
over the blue-sheet-lake,
where swans shine out to stars.
She paints a thorn in my crown,
as the sunset showers, setting in skin,
purging all my sins.
Worry why the painting Picasso,
burdens me, twists and contorts
the flesh of face, the pigment of my pride,
While all the while I shine -
a white, perfect primrose in the sky.