"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream." - Vincent Van Gogh

She told me that cones
are made for daylight,
and so to show her the truth
I took her into the dark.
Her beret tilted in the wind
and she shuddered, the fat
of her arms and of her chest
sheltered thick underneath
the plainness of her coat.
Look into the starry night
and tell me what you see.  

Her mouth parted gently,
the bottom of her teeth
peeking softly between
her lips.  She parted the
way that lips part before a first
kiss, hesitant, heart beating 
not red but the blue of the sky.
Look into the starry night
and tell me what you see.

Blue cannot exist without
yellow, without orange.
Her cheeks blushed with 
the blue that cannot be heard
with ears.  When she consented
to the stars, it was not her
but I who gasped, full of feeling.
Look into the starry night
and tell me what you see.

They carried her off on little
explosions of lighthouses
where sailors made love
to sirens.  She looked beautiful
riding them, hips gyrating 
like Milky Ways, like leptons,
like the hot and heavy of songs.
Look into the starry night
and tell me what you see.

As sweat dripped in infinities
off her brow, the wrinkles on
her face became less pronounced.
The breasts under her clothes,
now free, lost their sag.
She was reborn in the stars
like stellar nebulas emerging
from the whirls of black holes-
hair tumbling free of its cap to blend
into the yellow of lantern lights.
Look into the starry night
and tell me what you see.

When she came back down,
her eyes hadn't dimmed:
there was always an afterglow
with this form of love.  I offered
assistance, but, modest as most
women of the time, she reached
to tug into her clothes herself.
The layers of cloth rested 
peacefully upon her shoulders,
the fur, the coat, the scarf, the hat.
Sir, she said, pausing a moment
while looking over the bay.
I see only in black and in white.