The Workshop

what is drenched in death
that we can see
when the sky is blue with
a noontime sun and a simple
calm soaks the many bathers
on our beach?  and i wonder
where is the swimming woman
with her prophetic powers
when i need her answer
and her arms.  each time i think
i have it figured out, her mouth and eyes
become colors on my palette, while
the rest of her body flies away in an abstract plane.
my room is empty.  the bay window is open
to a great expanse of sea and laughter, but
i have my back turned and can only guess.
i hear she is slim and has a fine outline,
fully imbued with an indescribable something;
not flawless like a point, but she could make my day
for 24 hours before i die and
i would not feel guilty if i asked her
to be a friend.
and if i act out of place, she might
even see me better.