I’m watching Jamie watching blue
on a Tuesday in the Musée Picasso
Her head is cocked like she’s sorry for him
And I want to smack that disenchanted pout
off her head till it straightens out
her head with the perfect little freckles shaken
like salt from the brown doe eyes shaken
like salt like sweat like smoke
smoke like hot on her neck
the neck that makes me hate the shirt
for covering half of it (like birches intertwined, her neck)
the stiff-collared shirt tucked into her jeans
the shirt like God fucking tucked it in or Versace
into the denim jeans à la mode
the jeans that tug the round of her ass just so
makes me want to scramble her top to bottom
around in my hands like an egg,
wrestle her tussle her out of her freeze
just so she can walk around like one of us.
She’s reading the title now, checking the date
still sorry for him or for me for thinking that
we were lovers in another life,
that I could still be reeling
from that fat old man close to a century later,
for believing that I was him then or still am:
Pablo, all desire all hate all cock.
Something about the shape of her ass, I think,
keeps pouring me out of my own rock.