Nude Ascending
She comes upstairs
by the light of a small blue vase,
roses igniting carnations, a chive flower,
into the heavenless box,
the top landing.
The hour’s hand
picks up its palette of dark.
There’s room to stand way back,
to see her back runs down
a milky way and tiny fire
like scripture in the nooks of knees and elbows;
that whenever her weight flows forward an inch
she leaves a weightless sculpture where she was
and the earth rises and rolls away
to reflect she’s round, where she is.
Beyond the limitless
undoes the work of day
but the roots have gone
have gone into the basement, down
from the dandelion crown of her light hair.
John Gibbens
