The small, green oil by Camille Corot is mine.
My farmland, my gossamer trees.
The horde herds to O'keeffe's oils: bright red, white, purple. dazzling.
One man, middle-aged, leads three women
To see, in gallery three, the long, silver slit.
Like a boy, seeing an aunt's tit,
The man covers his mouth and giggles.
He is unaware that all the rest of us envision
Georgia's flowers as vaginas.
Over the curves of the white museum
The moon glides its full self toward the scaffolding that lines
Peachtree Street, a street with no peach trees.
Loud jazz, a trumpet, follows me.
Myriad masses of society pass by-- "Broadway Boogie Woogie" by Mondrian.
Oh how Peachtree longs to be Manhattan. And fails.
Georgia was once my green Corot,
All native harmony and nature. quiet. No jazz.
My love looks for harmony and nature
On an island of lava, orchids, and ocean waves.
He is O'Keeffe in the hills of New Mexico
Whose lover remains in the East. In New York.
Still, the round, white moon is full for us both;
The night is O'Keeffe's purple-black Iris;
And gossamer clouds wash the moon with arriving rain.