I have seen you paint them,

I watched with morning eyes,

Sleep still in the corners.

You squeezed color from a tube.

Alizarin Crimson,

Too cold for Greece in March.

Last night, your hands in the sheets:

I guess you understand my body.

Skin and hips easy to hold.

You will hate them soon,

Tiny flames on the hillsides,

You have always despised what is abundant.

Too much sky, for instance,

Can be devastating.

A ruined Canvas soaked in King’s Blue.

Mother’s purse on the counter

A twenty in my fist.