Like Corot
There was a truth, I believe,
in the lies we told each other.
What else could explain the way
winter was delayed that year?
Stepping over a muddy log, I stopped,
saw, as you bent back a barren limb
until it broke, your eyes terribly full
of the body – I – what you – wanted.
There is a girl in the sketchbooks of Corot
that looks like that, as you did
Just then, her hands wrapped tightly
around her young and naked frame,
her eyes turned away from the world –
as if when he drew her, Corot knew
the near future, for them, and for us,
how I would make the mistake
of thinking she was you- instead of me –
how the wind would bring winter
not long after we said “I love you”
under the leafless trees.
