Her gaze knows more

Than all of us, transfixed

By a swan (we guess) body

 

Shape, song, prismatic

Wings, but who can say,

She might have had these things

 

In mind from early on

When she memorized how lakes

And swans moved contrary

 

To each other, to her, making

Fields of everything:

Even art, she told the painter,

 

Is a motion – therefore, get me

Wrong, and still the years

Will chip my intent (your red)

To dots, to air.