Gauguin to his Pornographic Postcards
Little darlings, you are the only
faithful anymore, all I have
left, besides the mandolin.
Sometimes one tires of music.
Tonight I hear you whispering-
small gossip of shoulders and fishnet.
How disappointing! What do you know
but poses? You can not move, as the mind will.
It is the mind which leaps now,
declaring, I am a kiss, my nature
to suck the night's dark river,
to swallow. The drink is salt,
little friends, but not bitter.