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.