For Marilyn Monroe
and Magritte's white dress
So here she comes again, that big blonde
dreamboat sailing onto the scene,
polished to a sheen, heady and haloed
by seabirds, sails at her mast billowing
like a finger crooked and calling you to her.
And you move toward her, just on the chance
she may ask you to enter some cabin holding
a geography of mounds in breasts and buttocks,
and where in the closet hangs a perfect white dress,
dreaming her body breathing inside it.