Sestina, Unfinished

Jane Huffman

I’m escorted by a vanity of mind.

She lays me down atop her vanity. adjusts

the mirror and says,

there’s no such thing as abstract art, only

vanity, the study of god

a strand

of beads. As a child, I was stranded on

the nude beaches of my mind,

the lap of god,

the ocean tending to its vanity,

tending to the vanity of art. my

vanity says,

I am a fuselage of dove. She says,

I am a fuselage of cheek, stranded

in the bulwarks of an art,

she says, still life of mind,

of grief, before it manifests in vanity, a

child’s line drawing of god.