You can never see her face
as she walks through the garden
naked and unashamed—

barely infer her form
where the rose petals
form her shoulders,
where the sword-like leaves
of the innocent daffodils
cut in her waist,
where the lilacs bloom
the curves of her breasts—

her arms are lifted in revelation—
no, down at her sides
to match her relaxed contrapposto
no, both at once
infinite
in her contradictions—

and then she's past
the wind blowing her hair back
from her face
nothing but shadows here
as the ragged toothed edges
of the philodendrons rustle.

She wasn't here for you—
she's in search
of some giant still left on earth,
some fabulous monster
in which she might,
by some quirk of fate,
be able to believe.