Suffused with a golden glow, like Danae,
you alighted from that trite Paris tram.
Trailing you to the sweatshop where you stitched
artificial pearls on artificial
buds, I was proffered your alter ego.
We co-habited for half a century.
After thirty years you divulged your name,
unrolled like black stockings from white flesh.
Muse and millstone, you would immerse yourself
in one tub after another until
I preferred one who drowned in white lilacs
to you in your liquid sarcophagus.
For a while I dipped my brush in sunlight.
Now I stare at the bathroom mirror; shake
my futile fist at fate; ask another
to transmute green ground to gold, before death
transports me through the French windows, removes
the screen which separates us from ourselves,
bathing us in a calm chiaroscuro;
dissolving rigid contours by our love.