The room's blue in a darkening mood—
with lit trees glowing outside
a multi-pane window.

She's beautifully slippery, a slender trout
in a bath resembling an oyster shell.
Her white leg is like a pencil ending
in a foot. I can see each nibblet toe.

She seems to be half-sitting up, half-
reclining, the top of her head brown,
hair frizzing from rising steam.

Those gold coins to her side are a see-
through robe stitched together with cobwebs
and mystery. It's October, a wind-scoured
now violet hour. The painter has watched
as the water cools, until he's sure
the woman will climb out. No,

she has slipped into sleep, barely breathing.
She's writing down dreams, using her toe as a pen.
He closes the door, gliding off, anything
to leave her in a moment's peace.