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
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
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.