There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.


Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.

to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.


Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.