Drifting,
somewhere over Pablo’s Guernica
on the rue des Grands Augustins
were you his "private muse"
out beyond the window
and the wind, those naked trees
in weird geometries
across the Paris stairs
at the terrace of
the Café Les Deux Magots
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés?
The man was attracted & abstracted by your beauty,
your self-mutilation,
it was him who cut your fingers
even though it was you who did the cutting;
he made you the woman in tears

Man Ray somewhere in the shadows...
You, such a beautiful, sad woman

Outside,
the emptiness of the music
of all those stairways, all those stars
were you the
photographer or painter,
or just another lover
in another Picasso portrait?
All those successive stages of happiness
and pain,

so comfortable there, in that garden
like smoke drifting
here and elsewhere
yea, it’s lovely
how the way your eyes
weep

keep
weeping,
two mourning stars.

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