a vision comes to me
when I have worked
at my desk too long,
or studied too much poetry.
 
the flesh of a memory.  a woman.
that I once desired.
that I still desire.
 
she shimmers. in the tremulous air.
out of reach.
and I dare not reach.
 
she is nude.
rare beauty must never be obscured.
 
would you throw a sheet
over a painting of Goya’s Maja?
the art of Caravaggio?
chiseled passion of Rodin?
 
I trace the ghosts of moments.
that I must forget.
that I will never forget.
 
as the vision wanes
prodigal of essence
I strive to maintain.
I soldier in vain.
 
my eyes cannot hold
all of her beauty.