for Mick O’Dea
There’s that Cassatt painting I once liked,
the girl in the green garden, crocheting,
her high-necked dress, thinned by the light,
those salmon-pink geraniums,
her white skirts.
I pass her by—too wholesome, docile,
or maybe it was all the time I spent
in that strange German book he lent me:
Dix and Beckmann, the black Weimar glitter,
the book on my bed all night.