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.