Woman at the Window

^{—after Salvador Dalí}

Not much to pray for here:
the thin blue sky holds you, 
ecstatic, stuck.

Slumped in the corner, a tossed linen—some pale blouse, 
weary from too many echoing alleys,
a rag to stop a wound?

No.

In my dream, I unfold the sheet in fields of marigold; 
hazel forest edging the landscape
full of rain and bees.

She is there at the window,
back turned—my punishment here in the still noon—

and I, blazing forgotten in the center of a rose,
beyond the window’s frame;

without borders, 
without perspiration.