That look she casts over her naked shoulder,the long expanse of smooth alabaster skin.The knowing painter's eye examines ever deeper,while I hardly would know where to begin.The elongated supple spine and velvet skininvite the gentle touch of ling'ring fingertips.And yet her gaze denies the hitheringand holds voyeurs at bay with pouting lips. What calculus did Ingres maketo paint the brimming passion chilled,the smothered...

The desert speaks with buzzing flies or other insects I can't name, lamenting mates. Or is it wind through creosote and gentle moans of ocotillo flutes? A limitless palette of sight and sound, as restful shade hides in the burning rocks. I wish the gentle quiet will pervade, invade my bones and stay with me.