Forest of Fontainebleau

A walking stick
In this deep forest,
Thumbs along the earth.
This fallen tree beside you;
Wide enough to wrap your arms around
And not reach halfway.
Perhaps you will,
When the picture-taker has closed his eyes
To rest,
Reach around and hold;
Drag your legs to climb
Over; your heart feeling its
Beats against the wood.
Let the cane fall,
To roll and lie still
Beside a jagged cut friend.
You need this too;
In this deep forest,
Where you walk
With no one else near.

Milkmaid of Popindrecht

A dutch flower in one corner,
A chain lying in the other.
You stand between these things;
Above the dirt
And behind the hay.
You stand above the chain
And tarnished brass bellies;
Dangling one jug copper
Just barely in numb hands.
In your eye I see the paint crack;
These awkward fingers clamping the hip,
Jutting out.
A headdress with gold bangles
Enveloping your pale face;
These are not a milkmaid's.
Slant your hips,
And look away
From this,
Down on a patch of
Earth.
This is not the milkmaid,
But the sultan in the sun;
Desperate for a drop
To fall,
And gouge,
And clean,
Until the smell of paint
Carries no more
On the hands of flowers.