In an artist's studio

You painted me arsenic green.
I held an airplane in my hand
and knew I'd suddenly grown up
and had to move as far away
as the moment I was born.
No turpentine could erase
the incredulity in my face.
No words could frame this canvas,
no casbah would ever make room
for this Titian fire, this green
othermindedness, ineradicable
yearning for trees' embrace,
seas' rocking, tears' search
for throbbing fjords, this
painting's gaze, this birth
from a handful of grief	
and betrayal. No turpentine,
no words, no place, and then
I woke up haunted by you
dismembered on a roof. 

—————

Arsenic—Scheele's green, for example—is the subtlest of poisons, the handiest.