A slave all day to beauty, you prune the blue from air. Squeezing the sky from tubes, you transpose color Into meaning. When the light goes, dolor Rises—the lunatic sun sucks pigment from the bare That night makes. Every evening it's the same: black laces the room, My skirt scatters cinnamon to the floor, Mint tea steams glasses, I nod, you pour The day's misfortunes to the perfume Of my long wait. The plain are blessed. In them a rest is found From beauty. The pain of creating perfect swirls Of light, of hanging the world with pearls Grown in darkness—eased by a gowned And patient mistress. When you sleep the sky is sad. Its slow pass blinks through curtains, Bathes your skin in blue uncertain Light. You dream as under water; the mad Earth spins your form.