chiaroscuro

Do not touch the walls.  A clamor, an echo braids the dark.  A door sides open, and another, a screen, a  secret transit, a passage through furnished jungles (floral prints, porch prints) and ebony deserts (a sandbox, two courts, crossing lines); watch the chaise (just there!) and the acorns.  All  inhibitions left in drawers, folded beside bathing suits and linens.  Wiry hair (a lovely triangle, it need not be covered) aged and course, behind downy limb.  Enter the night, roseate ridges rise to meet the satin umbra; perhaps a boy (look down) or a girl child, the gleam of willowed nates, under a clothesline, though a fence, a race, a cry, a peel of joy opens and curls.  More follow, breasts, some heavier with countless affections, legs, a collision (an embrace) and a fall, black swans in dark waters.  Air, teeth, sharp chins, wild eyes ascend.  What's this?  A grey mouse?  Quelle surprise!  Cool synthetic on misty, pearling hides (how precious, how dear).  No running, please enfants!  Michelle!  A metallic groan (no, I protest!); frame after fey frame climb rung over rung.  A bucket, a broken handle.  A pass and a tidal wave.  A world of pirates and mermaids (all nude, all lively) in a ceramic lagoon.  A meteor, a light in a charcoal sky; trains of tinsel fall, on toes, blanched ears.  Steam rises off seraphs, silken skins, sequined waves.  What is this place?  Stained feet, hot stones.  A memory in a gold frame, it hangs in the wooded channels of our minds.