Art Schmart

The snow-capped mountains make me lean sedately,
and in those silver nets the scalloped fish
make spineless u's, their O-gapes yawning brightly.
The lights splayed on that wedge of water flash
in all directions, and the boats are laded.
Past banquets or at cornucopias
I get no appetite; by many-shaded
apples and pears I only hear the buzz

of flies; at Titian's nudes I'm merely wanton.
I read the sacred names, but just get hotter;
I need the sheen of sweat, that primal odor.
A sonsy woman at the water fountain
leans down to sip, causing a sudden gush
of adulation, and a secret blush.

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