She sees the world in Ben Day dots
of sunshine spots through window shutter;
And in her shade the mundane rots,
Decaying to newspaper mutter.
"Good morning, Mr. Lichtenstein" -
her voice, thus intimate but timid,
in bed sheets eagerly remains,
trespassing customary limits.
I love her like I loved before
the sound of steps on parquet floor;
I loved some essences before -
with all my heart and all my lumens -
But none of them were slightly human.
-
