One at a time, reads the sign on the door.
Alex hangs on the doorknob and breaks hand-skins to bleed.
Red-rowing through the room and to the flat glowing screen
"Today," says Alex, "I watch him paint,
It was I who spoke into the brain to say
A stroke of green, please, above the knee,
A golden-green leaf to brush against
a brawny young thigh of ivory, thick wrists and large vacant hands
like crashing airplanes having crashed.
I summon you artist to stroke your paintbrush."
And then did he, lie down into a flower mound
to love himself only without a woman's hands or wet grip.
At that time I had knocked on the door and was received by a groan of reluctance.
I am such a gentleman to have been dismissed.
And he is such a lady in his privacy.