the Riviera (1926)

in a tangle of French pine trees and shrubbery,
the white house was half hidden in the early part of July.
its' oriental interior was accented with a Moroccan table
and a slender woman in the middle of the salon wearing a long dress,
with her vertical vaginalike eyes narrowing in the summer light.
she had recently fed a high strung cat which at the moment was
stretched out on the divan, piled with cushions.
the cat was not asleep, but seemed to be studying an easel
with nothing on it but a palette, unsullied by paint.
a sketch book left open on a nearby table shows the hastily drawn
pair of tights the woman once wore, before her injury.
when a beautiful young man approached her, he opened his umbrella and gestured
for her arm, which she offered.
and she spent most of that summer outside, leaving the work to her husband,
who would do more than install a black-and-white mosaic floor for a patron's fumoir,
a room for smoking opium rather than tobacco.
their garden was always full of surprises, and they visited often,
especially with a drink in hand and surrounded by a collection of wealthy friends.