napoleon at seven

an old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,

plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near

under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.

everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.

a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,

sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,

stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.

hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist

like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.

clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.