Give me a Sarie tone poem
like light on a Monet haystack,
or Brazillian Astrud like a Matisse line.

Let me lie down in a half-shuttered room
in the south of France with Matisse
and the soft flutter
of heavy -feathered white doves,
their mild calls.

Only a little time, Henri,
before Picasso will  come with his big boots.

We should take our afternoon.