IN THE PICABIA

In the Picabia
of my mind
dawn and evening
are one
as no sun
will run out,
your figurative lines
between patinas
and meshes of color
weighs my light
on your speechless body
a posthumous solitude
from lingering weariness
your charm of gesture
rejoices "The Dance
at the Spring"
blinding memories
of our dark visible past
from a paint possibility
as luminous expression.