On the staircase, a courtier sprints in slow motion.
At the window, the princess combs her long, long hair.
In the courtyard, wolves devour her discarded lover.
Under the roof, a page trembles at the snarling and cries.
In the mirror, the foot of the painter's easel
shows he's still there, holding his breath,
recording the gleam of early morning sun
on crystal and goldleaf,
echoing, in the rosy tint of apples,
the blush mantling the cheek
of the royal bride.
He knows where to paint the curtain.

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.