The keen magic of these phantasms being born

The paintbrushes wrapped on the table

The canvases lining the hallway,

The paintings and their wild pathos enough for us to not go hungry for anything

Life that has been and is mysterious and passionate to its brim

My grand love setting its breath over the night

Writing these poems under a little flame

Figue sauvage - the last burning

Bare breasted in bed and hiding from the storm

This is all I think of as you circle me with your presence.