Written in response to a visit to the Museum of Fine Art.
Among the asylum
of thrusting priests
I am nymph skinned
bleeding freckles
on the silent tiled floor
martyrdom pleads
through the quiet awe
of misunderstanding
I lose you on 'A Szerelem Sziget'
in the light dust lacing
I am a sailor heaving
through indigo oil
through labourers folded faces
I press a fingernail
through waxen fruit
drain the rivers to sand spines
I hear your neck crunch
on Salome's pillow
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